


A Different Victim

by Charlie_M



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Holly has a job and is an adult of undetermined age, If it's not clear there's no underage, Metaphors, Multi, Obviously people get stabbed, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Rough Sex, Sex, Will Metaphor Graham, Will and Hannibal are pre-established, are you proud of me mom?, endless metaphors, oh yeah there is a three way, will tag individual chapters as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie_M/pseuds/Charlie_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of Garrett Jacob Hobbs the Minnesota Shrike, there exists a man named Stanley Kaye, dubbed the Psychic Psycho. Instead of young Abigail Hobbs falling victim to her father, the title has befallen Stanley Kaye's daughter, Holly. Will and Hannibal take a liking to her and the darkness they see within.</p><p>Let's see how long she survives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drown

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this story before, almost to it's completion, but since I've grown as a writer I wanted to rewrite the story. The plotline, therefore, is set up, I just have to rework and edit to my satisfaction.
> 
> And yes, I know, this might seem like a cop-out but listen. It was originally going to be just a Will story, because there's not many and I want him to be happy. But you can't ignore the call of Hannibal. So I was selfish and wrote for both and I think it could fit the atmosphere of the show nicely if I do this properly.

Coming back to consciousness after remaining mired in that deep smothering darkness for so long is very much like drowning in reverse. Holly finds that reality is already far away, heavy and black and peaceful when her mind flickers to life once again.

Then, like a videotape on rewind, the sharp, uncomfortable edges of sensation begin to return.

Cold first, oddly enough. In her toes and her fingertips, the clammy, slick kind because it’s accompanied with sweat. Her limbs tingle with numbness, like just before slipping into sleep, when her mind is still aware enough to recognize it. The circulation of blood flowing as her body settles. This is the opposite, as her heart stutters into the proper rhythm for movement, supplying her muscles properly again.

The next is the pain, and this is more expected. She can’t remember why it would be at the moment, but her mind dimly recognizes that she has been asleep a very long time, and that when she went to rest, it was not pleasantly. Holly’s left shoulder aches even without the aggravation of movement, stings when she shifts with dawning awareness.

More pain, more cognizance as her finer senses sharpen.

There’s bright light beaming down on her like a spotlight, turning the darkness a mottled pink behind her eyelids. In her mind it’s celestial, like Heaven shining down insistently upon her even as she denies its radiance. The compulsion to look is stayed by her fear of being blinded.

A dull burn as something is pulled from her throat, slick from saliva but no less uncomfortable in its retrieval. Holly chokes and gags dryly as her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings, finally yielding to the call of the light.

 _It’s not Heaven_ , she thinks, _unless Heaven is fluorescent_.

Someone’s hand is pressing against her right shoulder, gentle but persistent all the same, and Holly realizes she’s been attempting to sit up in a panic.

Right, panic. She has very good reason to panic.

The world is a garbled mess of noises around her, like her head is still underwater. An indistinguishable rush and hum of voices, a vague shuffling, a high consistent note too piercing to be musical, and the soothing thrush of waves.

The splash into the water is usually a cacophony of noise followed by silence, or perhaps the gentle hiss and gurgle of bubbles returning to the surface. Dragged from the depths, Holly’s ears are assaulted by dissonant noise, all the sounds clashing and sharp and unwelcome.

Her eyes adjust to the light. Everything around her is pristine and crisp, from the pastel floral curtains, to the white linen sheets tucked around her, to the bustling nurses in their powder blue scrubs. Holly’s mind focuses on the one to her left while her mind adjusts to the sensory overload.

The woman has dark hair cropped short just beneath her chin, and eyes nearly the same shade. Like two coals that burn without flame. There’s a collected urgency about her, a purposeful quickness to each movement. Her hands are steady but quick as she taps at an IV and discards a long plastic tube that looks vaguely familiar.

Holly’s mouth is dry and tastes vaguely reminiscent of copper, like she’s had a penny on her tongue while she slept. Her eyes water with pain when she attempts to sit up again; her shoulder protests most noticeably. So does a second nurse, if Holly is interpreting her unintelligible string of babble properly.

This one is less assured than the first. Where the other is the eye of the storm, this one is the swirling hurricane around it. She frets and quivers slightly and her nervous eyes keep straying to Holly’s injured shoulder. It feels hot and wet where it hadn’t before and the first nurse tuts in a manner that still manages to be soothing.

Holly takes in a breath through her noise because that burns her parched throat a little less than gasping through her mouth. She smells antiseptic. Bleach and alcohol with the cloying obtrusive fragrance of artificial lemons. Unfortunately, Holly recognizes the mixture with distinction.

A hospital.

Like the splash of breaking the tenuous surface of the water all over again, the last of Holly’s grogginess disappears and her most recent memories flood back.

Two heartbeats drumming inharmoniously in fear, fueled on adrenaline and survival. One in her chest, fluttering like a caged hummingbird against her ribs. The other against her back, secondhand but distinct, a cornered animal.

The great cracking of wood, a voice calling out into intense silence. The cold, ominous bite of a blade against soft, forgiving flesh. An almost undeniable impulse to scream for that voice, restrained only by the press of the carving knife to her throat.

The deafening staccato pop of a gun. Agony blooming, searing, _tearing_ into her shoulder, into the soft, tender spot where a lover would leave a mark.

Then a face. Blue eyes much too large for the man’s blood-spattered face behind dirty glasses. Those eyes bury into the deepest part of her, reach something she’s made remote to others; the only pathways leading there through forests of compositions and towers of sketches.

He’s found his way through the rivers of blood slithering into crimson pools beneath her, all in a crumb’s worth of time.

The nurses are speaking again, this time directly to her. The other one, the scared one, is frantically telling her to calm down or something of the sort. The tremble and worry in her voice makes it difficult for Holly to listen past the roaring in her ears. She struggles against the press and pull of unfamiliar hands. The first inserts herself in Holly’s line of sight and speaks calmly, soothingly.

“Miss Kaye,” she says.

Holly clings frantically to the recognizable syllables, clings to the nurse as though that will help.

“You must calm down,” the nurse continues, “just take deep breaths. Follow my lead.”

Inhale, exhale; inhale, exhale. Holly follows the woman’s telegraphed cues to breath until all is quiet again. The consistent beep of a heartrate monitor tells Holly that she’s alive, that her body is finally starting to calm down.

Eventually, her mental condition follows her physical. The tension ebbs from her shoulders. The nurse smiles reassuringly as Holly sags against thin pillows.

“Miss Kaye, how are you feeling?” she asks.

Holly attempts to speak, but her vocal chords protest and the nurse hands her a plastic cup of water. The liquid is somehow warmer than the room itself, but it’s like drinking from the Holy Grail. When she’s drained the cup, her hand falling tiredly back to her lap, she tries again.

“Where am I?”

Her voice comes out a half-grated note, like a beginner trying the violin for the first time.

Serviceable, barely.

“Baltimore Psychiatric Facility.”

Holly’s mouth goes dry all over again, and the nurse seems to understand, stands. Holly collects her thoughts as the cup is filled with tap water from the sink.

A fine tremble starts in her chest and spreads outwards at the thought of returning to that last memory. But there’s a detail she can’t ignore there, no matter how desperately she wants to.

“My father…is he still…?”

The nurse doesn’t meet her eyes as she places the cup in Holly’s hand again.

No. There were too many gunshots, too much convulsing. He jolted with each round that entered his body.

He’s dead.

“We’re going to call Doctor Bloom. Try to rest, Miss Kaye.”

◊◊◊

Holly Kaye’s room is in the second hallway, four doors down from the nurse’s station, on the right. Alana Bloom’s heels click confidently against the shiny linoleum tiles, the bags rustling when they brush her clothes.

The door has been left open a crack, a single light left on. The rest have been exchanged in favor of the natural sunlight playing through the clean windows.

A magazine rests forgotten on Holly’s lap, hands clasped over an inane article concerning a celebrity couple. Her gaze strays from the sunny view outside to the newcomer, the light now reflecting off gentle, lost eyes the same shade of grey as a dove’s wings. Sunlight catches and tangles in glossy chestnut hair, recently brushed and washed, Alana notices with approval.

“Hello, Holly,” Alana says.

She smiles in a friendly manner and Holly takes notice, closing the magazine and setting it on the table nearby. She's only been awake a day but the monitoring equipment has already been cleared out, replaced by more chairs.

“Hello,” she replies.

Her voice is quiet, tentative to break the silence she’s cocooned herself in, but there’s a note of expectation as well, and perhaps curiosity. She tries not to shrink as Alana moves closer.

“My name is Alana Bloom. I’m a psychiatrist.”

Holly’s gaze flicks over Alana’s face for a moment and inevitably falls to the array of colorful bags in her hand. She swallows before she speaks again, hands twitching like startled animals, but she manages to meet Alana’s eyes this time.

“What kind of psychiatrist?” she asks.

“I specialize in family trauma.”

Holly’s eyes drop again, this time landing somewhere around the top of Alana’s boots. She shifts with discomfort, shame shadowing her tired, pale features. She’s been too exhuasted for nightmares, but sleep doesn't come easy and she’s haunted nonetheless.

“You came to talk about my father,” she says.

Alana takes a seat in the hard plastic chair to Holly’s right, attempting to keep from putting strain on the newly stitched wound. She notes a fresh white bandage peaking from beneath the high collar of the floral hospital gown, but doesn’t allow her attention linger.

“If you want,” she replies, “Or we can talk about something else. Whatever you want.”

Holly nod with the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, like a rosebud hesitantly beginning to bloom. Her eyes glitter with unshed tears and her voice trembles as she speaks.

“Thank you. I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it just yet…”

Alana smiles in understanding and doesn’t push. Holly is so very fragile, like a fallen snowflake. She almost fears speaking again, lest she break the poor thing. Each word must be carefully weighed and just as carefully delivered.

“That’s alright. I brought you some things. Clothes, books, music. Anything that doesn’t fit you or you don’t like, just leave the tags on and I’ll return it.”

Holly glances at the bags again, one hand drifting up to brush a curling strand of hair from her surprised expression.

“You brought me all that?” she asks.

“Yes, I thought you might like something a little more normal,” Alana answers, “I figured the same tabloids might bore you.”

She casts the forsaken magazine an amused look and Holly smiles wanly again, sniffling a little. She wipes at her eyes with one hand, the lower lids smudged with dark half-moons.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Alana places her hand gently over Holly’s. Her skin is cool and soft, the delicate tendons jump slightly at the touch.

“You’re very welcome,” she says.

◊◊◊

“I don’t know, Jack. Holly doesn’t display any behaviors that would lead me to believe she helped her father.”

Alana left the hospital hours ago and dallied in returning to report. Holly was only up for a short visit. She’s still recovering from her father’s attack, both mentally and physically, and her gentle demeanor calls out to Alana to protect her.

Especially from the FBI.

“But…?”

Jack Crawford leans forward on his desk, large hands propped up and laced together in a show of expectation. Alana denies the impulse to scowl at his prompting and crosses her arms, settling for a disapproving frown instead.

“Holly has been severely traumatized. she’s barely holding on by a thread right now, Jack. It would be foolish to go barging in to interrogate her. At this point, being too aggressive or confrontational may cause her irreparable damage.”

Jack delivers his own frown at her warning, eyes flashing. A lion told not to hunt. He’s used to being in a position where he hears what he wants, but Alana is not afraid to tell him just the opposite. Doctor Lector, who also happens to be present and sitting passively in the chair next to Alana’s, speaks up.

“She was very close to her father after her mother’s passing. It was just the two of them. For him to betray her so totally is devastating. She no doubt feels as though she has no one left in the world who loves her,” he says.

Jack lowers his head, unable to ignore the professional opinions of two psychiatrists whose thoughts he respects and relies on. He sighs.

This won’t stop his investigation of her, but for now he’ll hold off on directly impressing his suspicions upon her.

“I want to speak to her,” Will declares.

He’s been shifting in place restlessly since Jack invited him into his office—purely out of courtesy, of course. Crawford knows that Will might be too close to Holly already, too subjective to think clearly.

“I don’t know that that’s a good idea,” Alana replies, “She said she remembers everything that happened. I’m sure she remembers you too. You shot her father, Will.”

He frowns, the arms he's crossed over his chest tightening slightly. He wishes he could argue, but he ultimately knows that Alana’s right. Holly’s been through a lot and even with her conflicting feelings towards her father, he’s sure his presence won’t be welcome while she convalesces.

“What do you think, Doctor Lecter?” Jack asks.

Hannibal ignores Alana’s consternation and considers his own machinations, the opportunity to set up the board as he pleases once more. Alana wasn’t there when he and Will had saved Holly, after all.

Only they know of what transpired just before she’d passed out from shock and blood loss. Them and Holly. An unspoken secret. A tiny sliver of time wrapped in silk and hidden away from others for the pure, beautiful novelty of it.

“Our presence may help her to sort out her feelings. Will and I were there, she’d be able to relate to us. She could ask us about what happened and feel less alone,” he says.

Jack considers, rubbing his hand contemplatively over his mouth and chin.

“Alright, then. It looks like you’ll be getting your wish, Will.”


	2. Struggle

Freddie Lounds is very rambunctious without even saying a word. She’s a burst of color in the otherwise stark room, but she doesn’t bring with her breath of life. Or if she does, it’s not so much a breath as a gust.

Holly’s not sure why the hospital staff let her in, but somehow she imagines it was achieved by some ethically ambiguous method. She shifts uncomfortably under Freddie’s sharp, blue gaze.

They’re nothing like those other blue eyes, so frightened and frantic above her…

Holly shakes her head a little to dispel her thoughts. His eyes have haunted her dreams and now her days too. Day by day they seem more vivid even as they begin to fade in her memories.

“So…you’re a journalist?” Holly asks.

Holly notices that which journal, exactly, wasn’t mentioned in their introductions. Freddie’s answering smile makes her feel like cracked glass, and yet it reminds her of the shark circling the sinking ship.

“That’s right,” Freddie replies.

Holly can’t look her in the eyes, unsure how to respond to someone she’s so uncomfortable with. She almost feels like a blank slate right now. What did she used to do when she didn’t like someone? How is she supposed to run away when she’s a captive audience?

“There has been a lot of controversy surrounding you and your family, Holly,” Freddie continues, “A lot of different stories and theories have been tossed around in the media and the public. I just want to tell the truth—your truth.”

Holly swallows, feels a twinge in the healing flesh beneath the clean bandages. It’s only psychosomatic, she knows, but that doesn’t stop her from wincing a little anyway. Her hand thoughtlessly strays to the wound, the stitches still tender from a few days earlier, when she popped two of them in her panic waking up.

“You mean what happened,” she replies.

Freddie’s hand settles on Holly’s left as she nods. Her expression is appropriately sympathetic—so much so that Holly knows it’s artificial. She’s glad her hand covers the injury; it feels as though Freddie could see right into the muscle and sinew, to the moment it happened, to the monster’s permanent imprint.

“There are some people, including some in the FBI, that think you might have…helped your father in some way,” Freddie says.

Holly’s chest goes tight and cold, stomach twisting violently. Her fingers twitch, curling into the fabric of the bed sheets. She’s glad she only half-heartedly ate her oatmeal and toast and syrupy fruit breakfast. It was bad enough the first time, she doesn’t relish the thought of experiencing it a second.

“But—but he tried to kill me. Doesn’t that mean anything?” she whispers.

Freddie’s sympathetic expression stays frozen in place as she shakes her head, squeezing Holly’s hand gently. She nearly jerks away, uncomfortable with the physical contact, but refrains from doing so.

“You can change what people think. We can change what they think. Together,” Freddie replies.

Holly’s eyes drop to the sheets as she releases the thin, scratchy material. Her other hand drops from her shoulder, curling protectively around her stomach. She’s not really interested in changing what people think of her, or in expressing “her truth”.

She doesn’t say so.

“How did they catch my father?” Holly asks.

Freddie’s eyes spark unnervingly, like water catching fire. Holly tries not to shift again.

“A man named Will Graham. Works for the FBI, but isn’t FBI. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane. He’s the one that killed your father,” she explains.

The door opens quietly behind her, a familiar face entering with an unobtrusive shuffle of boots along tile. Holly wants to be swallowed up by the bed as his eyes, his troubled, memorable blue eyes, fall on the two of them. The tight clench of his unshaven jaw attests that he was not spared those last words.

Freddie stands from the bed and turns away and Holly can finally breathe.

The wrathful expression bleeding through the cracks of a hasty mask causes Holly to swallow almost audibly. Even so, she reflects to herself that she prefers to see him without the blood and terror. It makes the brown mess of boyish curls more endearing, somehow.

Holly opens her mouth to say something.

She’s not sure what, exactly, but she wants to diffuse the situation, ease the thick tension. So thick, she feels like she might drown in it.

Her fingers twist around loose threads in the linens that she’s been picking at when she doesn’t want to look Alana Bloom in the eye.

“Speak of the devil,” Freddie says.

“Would you excuse us please?” Will asks.

His voice is clipped and flat and overly polite. Holly thinks of that voice calling out into the unnatural stillness of her childhood home, calling out to her homicidal father who’d already had his knife to her throat in the den.

Not the same, exactly. His voice then had trembled slightly. This is…rough resignation.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her,” Freddie replies.

Holly clears her throat loud enough to be heard and all eyes turn to her. She focuses on the footboard of the bed rather than any one of them. Just beyond the gray plastic, she notes a third person has accompanied Will.

His pants are pressed and dressy rather than wrinkled denim. Holly absently smooths a hand down the cotton front of the soft gray shirt she received among her new wardrobe.

“It’s alright,” she says.

It’s really all she can manage with their intense gazes focused on her. It feels like the spotlight on her all over again, only Holly wishes she could curl up into the darkness as before rather than face them now.

“Very well,” Freddie replies, “if you ever want to talk…”

The business card she’s about to offer Holly is snatched up with the quickness of a snake striking prey. Will studies the linoleum while he stuffs the card viciously in the inside pocket of his jacket. Holly isn’t sure what to say, so she waits, holding her breath.

Freddie tosses a triumphant glance to Holly, concluding her evidence. See, he’s insane, her victorious little smile says. Holly’s gaze flicks to Will again just as his eyes finally detach themselves from the floor.

“I’m Special Agent Will Graham,” he begins.

Freddie pipes up from the doorway, hand on the knob without moving to vacate. Holly imagines she’s been escorted from various establishments before and wonders why Will Graham didn’t think to do so now as well.

“By Special Agent, he means not really an agent. He didn’t get past the screening process—too unstable.”

The other man moves from his station at Will’s side, ushering her to the door in a manner that leaves no space for resistance.

“I must insist you leave the room,” he says.

Even in the single sentence, Holly detects an accent, but not one she recognizes. The man closes the door after Freddie and turns back with a small, polite smile, brushing off the incident like water from a raincoat.

An awkward, tenuous silence settles over the room for a moment.

“This is Doctor Lecter,” Will says finally, “Do you remember us?”

Holly studies Doctor Lecter for a moment. Everything about him is neat and tidy and sophisticated, invoking images of vaulted ceilings in Renaissance art museums and sparkling flutes of champagne at the premiere night of a symphony.

He doesn’t trigger any memories.

“I remember you, Agent Graham,” Holly replies slowly, “but…I’m sorry, I don’t remember you, Doctor Lecter.”

The latter of the two approaches the bed languidly, each step as graceful as it is careful, like approaching a startled animal. Holly doesn’t shift to move away as she had with Freddie Lounds.

Probably because Will implied that Doctor Lecter helped save her too, and since Will already has her implicit trust, Doctor Lecter does now as well.

“That’s quite alright. You were already unconscious when I arrived,” he explains.

Yes, the last thing she truly remembers is Will’s eyes and a hand scrambling slickly against her shoulder. Holly takes his word for it though and nods, gaze settling on Doctor Lecter’s suit tie.

“We visited you, while you were in your coma,” he adds.

Holly glances up then, eyes bouncing back and forth between the two as Will moves closer, on the same side as Doctor Lecter. The nurses never mentioned that—but then again they never mention anything pertaining to her father or the case or what happened while she was unconscious.

The term “coma” makes her uncomfortable.

“Was Freddie telling the truth—about my father, I mean? Do people really think I could have helped him?” she asks.

Her voice is small in the already tiny room, a scared animal to be coaxed out from under the bed. There are times she wishes _she_ could fit in that space.

When she was young, she used to fear the monsters that hid there in the dark, but now she knows better. She knows that the real monsters are flesh and bone that parade around in human skins, reveling in the gruesome horror of daylight. She’d rather throw her lot in with smoke and shadows.

“Perhaps,” Doctor Lecter answers, “The FBI is investigating the possibility, but there hasn’t been any evidence.”

A wave of frustration and disappointment washes through her. The FBI won’t find anything, of course. She hadn’t known about her father’s activities until the moment he’d held a blade to her throat.

Still, to think that they’re investigating her when she’s just another victim is disheartening.

“ _We_ don’t believe you had anything to do with it,” Will says, “but the FBI is just being thorough. Or paranoid. Choose an adjective you like.”

Holly glances up, suddenly hoping to meet his gaze, be he studiously avoids her, eyes locked on the sheets instead. She's not entirely disheartened by that though.

They believe her. That's what matters. Perhaps she isn't so alone after all...

Doctor Lecter clears his throat and stands.

“You’ve been in bed for three weeks, Holly. Why don’t we go for a walk?” he suggests.

◊◊◊

Holly hasn’t had much time to become reacquainted with using her legs. She walks to the bathroom, but that’s hardly more than a few feet. Showers don’t really count either, since the nurses urge her to sit to keep her injured shoulder dry.

When she gets out of the bed now, her legs shake and she stumbles like a newborn foal over her own feet. Both Doctor Lector and Will reach out to catch her before she falls.

Unfortunately, Will grabs her left arm and the slight jerking motion aggravates the wound. She yelps in pain, he snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, and she leans into Doctor Lecter’s firm hold as she collects her feet under her.

Each step is uncertain, her body wobbles as it adjusts its equilibrium. Doctor Lecter keeps a firm hand on her elbow and his other arm hovers near her waist, prepared to catch her if she falls again. Will orbits her other side, apologetic but distant, careful to keep a buffer between them lest he hurt her again.

An orderly holds the door for them to walk into the garden; Holly offers up a small, appreciative smile as they pass. The air outside is crisp and cool and she breathes in the earthy scent of vegetation with relish. Her legs still feel oddly detached, even as she grows used to the sensation of walking again.

They travel a little ways, mostly in silence. Her mind wanders to Freddie Lounds and how quickly she tried to alienate Holly from Will. Not even Doctor Lecter—just Will—and without Holly even having to mention him directly.

It was like she was trying to be preemptive. Make Holly feel more alone perhaps, as though Freddie is the only person she can turn to.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “about what Freddie Lounds said.”

Will and Doctor Lecter exchange glances over her head in silent communication. Holly’s eyes are too focused on the veins of cracks in the cement to do more than vaguely note its occurrence. She’s become used to this anyway, between nurses and doctors and the like.

“It’s not your fault. That woman likes to spread lies for publicity,” Will replies, “She only does something if she thinks she’ll get something out of it.”

It makes sense to Holly. Writing a book about a serial killer from the daughter’s perspective would be a fantastic bullet point to add to any resume. The money, the fame, the prestige—Holly is surprised others haven’t already approached her with offers.

Just the thought exhausts her, and she doesn’t notice herself deflating until Doctor Lecter is gently guiding her to sit on a nearby bench.

“She is dangerous,” Doctor Lecter adds, “it would be best to keep your distance from her when you can.”

Holly stares down at her lap with a sigh and nods in understanding. If she can avoid Freddie Lounds, she’s more than happy to.

“She said she wants to ‘tell my truth’…but I don’t think I want people to know any more about my truth than they already do. _I_ don’t even want to know about my truth,” she whispers.

Truth: she’s the daughter of a serial killer that’s been gruesomely murdering people for who knows how long.

He could have been dragging bodies through the hallway while she studied for high school tests upstairs. His victims could have sat in the basement while she discussed Art Club with him over dinner.

Will sits down on the bench next to her, angled so that they’re facing each other. His expression is thunderous, but distant, not directed at her.

“Freddie Lounds chooses the version of truth that suits her best and pursues it pathologically. She is not someone you should put your faith it.”

Holly glances up at him and their eyes meet and hold for a fraction of a moment. Even looking somewhat awkward and stilted as he does now, her mind register that his eyes really are lovely.

She wants to ask if she should be putting her faith in him, in Doctor Lecter, but he looks away before she can. They’re better than nothing—more than just “better”. They were there; they saved her life. Who better to put her faith in?

“I don’t blame you for killing him,” she blurts.

Will’s eyes snap up again, focusing intensely on every detail of her face. She hesitantly reaches out, her cold fingertips brushing feather-light over the back of his hand.

After a moment, his hand turns over and takes hers, the other settling gently over top. His skin is warm, much warmer than she’s expecting with the temperature what it is, and rough with calluses.

“I’m struggling with what to feel about him, but…but I know that he had to be stopped. And that you kept me from being another tally to his body count.”

Tentative hope and relief etch themselves across Will’s shocked expression. His hand squeezes hers gently, and Holly didn’t realize how much she’s been starved of comforting physical contact until her eyes well with tears. She blinks them away, turning as though that will keep him from seeing.

“It’s alright to feel confused, Holly. There is no easy way to face what has happened to you,” Doctor Lecter says, “but we’re here to help in whatever way you’ll allow us.”

Holly offers up a watery smile, but she’s reluctant to pull her hand from Will’s to wipe at her eyes.

“Whatever you end up…if you’re angry with me, I understand,” Will adds.

She shakes her head. The numbness of shock has been wearing away ever since she woke up, but among those feelings she has regarding Will Graham, anger isn’t one of them. It’s different when she thinks of her father—but those are musings for another time.

“Your hands were shaking when you held the gun,” she says, “After he cut me…I remember looking up and seeing you, your eyes. You were so scared, more than me. You were trying so hard to save me, I remember thinking that I wanted to comfort you somehow, in case I didn’t make it. And then I blacked out.”

Will’s hands tighten minutely around hers, but an almost sad smile pulls at his mouth.

“You must not remember then,” he murmurs.

Holly cocks her head a little, her brow furrowing in question. Everyone has been commending her on how well she remembers the events preceding her coma. Commending or apologizing. If anyone knows better, though, it’s Will and Doctor Lecter.

“Right before you passed out you reached up and touched my face. I couldn’t understand why until now,” he explains.

She squeezes his hand, offering up the most sincere smile she’s felt she’s given in weeks. In all fairness, it technically is. Her eyes turn to Doctor Lecter and she clears her throat.

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter, for helping me,” she says.

He smiles enigmatically down at her and places a large hand on her uninjured shoulder.

“There is no need to thank me, Holly.”

It sounds odd, the way he says it so graciously, and she’d ask what he means, but she knows it would sounds strange and lets it go. Her shoulders drop minutely, enjoying the one peaceful, pleasant moment she’s had since waking.

Even Alana bringing her clothes had been melancholy. It felt like a bargaining chip more than a show of good will, even though Holly knows Doctor Bloom was throwing her a lifeline in a turbulent ocean.

Holly must come back to reality though, and hopes that Doctor Lecter and Will may actually answer those questions she’s not quite sure she wants answers to. She clears her throat quietly and looks between them, but their attention hasn’t left her for a moment.

“What now?” she asks, “What…what am I supposed to do now?”

Will and Doctor Lecter exchange glances again and this time Holly isn’t shy enough to ignore it. She can’t decipher what they’re crowded silence means though, and so she waits with just a small inkling of frustration.

“That depends on you Holly,” Doctor Lecter replies.

“What do you think will give you closure?” Will asks.

Holly considers. Her life hadn’t been in that house anymore. She lived in a dorm through college, has an apartment that feels too empty and ill-fitting now to return to. The families of the victims filed wrongful death suits. Everything that was her father’s will go to them, and some of what is hers probably, if that’s how that law works. Alana hasn’t really explained.

Even so, an odd hollowness fills her at the realization that the house will be turned over. The home of her childhood. A place of horror that once held her fondest memories, that bore witness to significant milestones in her life. There’s a circular sort of poeticism to that—it that was the house she was conceived in, and the house she nearly died in.

“I—I think I want to go back…”


	3. Crack

The house is a charming two-story structure, with a sloping roof and a raised front porch. The façade has sported an unassuming shade of gray since Holly was five, the front door bleeding vibrant red. There’s a child’s small handprint near the bottom and yellow police tape crisscrossing the threshold.

In the three weeks it’s been neglected, the lawn has become a tangled jungle, defiled with litter and infested by stubborn weeds. “Psychic Psychos” has been spray painted across the darkened windows and over the garage door.

As Will parks the car by the curb across the street, he glances in the rearview to weigh Holly’s expression. She’s staring at the graffiti, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. He imagines grappling in the bone arena of her skull, trying to determine their meaning.

“Holly, you don’t have to do this,” he says, “we can still go back.”

She tears her eyes away from the abandoned husk to meet his in the mirror. A fine tremble has begun even with the tight grip she has around her abdomen, like she’s holding herself together. Her eyes are far too wide and scared for her face.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, white teeth sinks into pink flesh as her gaze defers to the window again. After a moment, Holly seems to steel herself and she shakes her head.

“I want to do this,” she replies, “please.”

Her eyes still swim with fear.

Will nods, something like admiration flowering warm in his chest at her determination. As heartening as it is, however, concern and a healthy dose of dread worm their way into his mind. It’s a gamble, bringing her back to this place, even at her own insistence.

Alana is accompanying them for this outing as extra moral support, trailing in the car behind them. Will’s confident that she and Hannibal will be able to handle the fallout if Holly breaks. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens, but it feels important that he’s here anyhow.

It’s selfish, and just a tad paranoid, but he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t want Holly to hate him, and she doesn’t seem to, but something irrational inside him wonders if that will suddenly change when she sees the bloodstains.

“We’ll be right there beside you, Holly. When you’ve had enough, we’ll leave. If at any time you feel like it’s too much, tell us,” Hannibal says.

Holly relaxes fractionally at the calm instruction and nods.

“Thank you, Doctor Lector,” she murmurs.

He offers her a reassuring smile.

“You may call me Hannibal, if you like,” he says.

Will watches her latch onto this, on something unrelated to the house or her father. The permission to be less formal with one of the men who saved her seems to be comforting.

Her expression goes still, like a thin sheet of glass. Still and flat on the surface, but still transparent to the turmoil beyond.

“Okay, I think…I think I can…”

She haltingly unbuckles her seatbelt, eyes flicking back to the house as if the feral animal of her memories will attack if she looks away for too long. Will can empathize—of course he can, but from a personal perspective.

An ache settles in his chest for her, prompts him to exit first and hold her door open.

“Chivalry’s not dead after all,” she says.

He smiles more that she accepts his proffered hand than the attempt at humor. She lingers in the contact a moment too long, grip tightening almost imperceptibly. Alana joins them, Hannibal circles around the front of the car.

Holly lets go but doesn’t distance herself.

“After you, Holly,” Hannibal says.

They flank her up the front walk, Hannibal on her injured side this time. Alana brings up the rear. Her arm is supported by a sling; she keeps shifting with discomfort but the pain stays her from removing it entirely.

Will tears the yellow tape down and nudges the front door open. Holly stares at the darkened doorway and pales, lungs hitching. Hannibal senses the looming panic and places an anchoring hand on the small of her back.

“Breathe,” he instructs, “The horrors that stalk you will never subside if you do not face them here.”

The oncoming storm is quelled for a little while longer.

Holly nods, steels herself with something a little denser this time. She visibly grits her teeth as she takes the first step.

“It’s so cold.”

Stanley Kaye was a proud father of his only child. The entryway still exhibits pictures of Holly’s childhood; awards for art, good behavior, science projects. An adoring chronicle of his daughter’s progression into adulthood.

Unexpected decoration for a serial killer’s den.

“The heating has been turned off,” Will explains.

She frowns, eyeing the pictures like she’s never seen them before. He can see the gears clicking in her mind, the endless whirlpool of questions she’s drowning in.

“It was always warm,” she says.

She gravitates towards the living room.

Just as the Greek philosophers said—humanity drawn to its own death and destruction. Freud would have a field day with Holly’s instinctual attraction to the place of her near-slaughter.

Will unconsciously tenses but follows her, Hannibal not far behind them. Supporting the former as much as the latter.

Holly finally stops at the edge of a rusty brown mark that seeped through the carpet into the frigid gray concrete. Will remembers the event vividly, as if the moment were occurring right before his eyes again. A duality of past and present playing out, layered translucent over one another.

He thinks of the fountain of her blood, scalding liquid fire spouting over his hands and between his fingers. It soaked everything, flooding into crimson pools where his knees indented the carpet. His jeans had been lost—shoes too, despite Hannibal’s skill with removing blood.

“This is where I…?” she asks.

Where she fell.

Where she bled.

Where he saved her.

“Yes,” Will answers.

She turns slightly, considering a similar stain a few scant feet away. Her fingers twitch at her side. Will can’t even remember the sight of Stanley Kaye’s body before Hannibal had pressed his hands over Holly’s wound and Will had stumbled back with a gasp.

Stanley Kaye’s last hoarse croak whispers around them.

_Save her._

“That’s where he died?”

These words are somehow easier for Holly to say. Alana shifts closer, eyes intent on the unfolding scene, noting the difference. Will glances at Hannibal; it is he that answers this time, with more finality.

“Yes.”

Holly’s silent. Silent as the house. Silent as the dead.

Will inserts himself at her side before she’s even moved. Her retreat is unsteady and she almost trips over her own feet. He catches her, supports her with an arm around her shoulders. She goes still, drinks in a slow, deep breath as if reminded of Hannibal’s words from earlier.

She’s similar to one of Will’s strays, the way she presses into his side, uncertain and distrustful of what to do and where to go. Injured. Frightened. Lost.

Alone.

Holly struggles to control her emotions; Will smothers the protective flare that urges him to take her from the house. Get her safe, get her warm. Let her sit on the floor by the fire, surrounded by a sea of strays like herself, sipping a handful of cheap, steaming coffee from one of his chipped mugs.

When she inhales once more and lets it out in a slow gust, Will comes back to himself. A moment later, Holly glances up at him with a small, appreciative smile. Too ashamed or too shy to look him in the eyes. He’s almost grateful.

Her gaze travels to Hannibal and finally Alana.

“Do you know where your father might have kept any…remains of his victims?” Alana asks.

Holly blinks, mouths the words as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue. She glances at Hannibal for translation, shoulders tensing. Under his hand, Will feels faint tremors that have begun anew.

“There was skin missing on each of his victims,” Hannibal explains, “The FBI was hoping you might know what your father did with them.”

Holly unconsciously huddles closer to Will, seeking comfort, stability. Ironic, he isn’t exactly considered the quintessence of stability. Nevertheless, his arm tightens around her, minding her shoulder, offering what he can.

“I don’t. I’m sorry. I can’t even—can’t…” she says.

Will nods and rubs his thumb in soothing circles over her arm through her shirtsleeve. She doesn’t try to continue the sentence; they don’t need her to.

“It’s alright. We didn’t really expect you to know anyway,” he replies.

Her shoulders relax minutely, but he sees her mind spinning with the new knowledge. A serial killer for a father is one thing. Her serial killer father keeping trophies is something else entirely.

“Holly?”

It’s a new voice. Quiet, hesitant. All eyes turn to a young blond woman that’s just rounded the corner of the hallway. Her eyes are warm brown, but stormy with concern as she absorbs Holly and the sling.

“Stephanie!”

Holly sounds so very relieved. Will drops his arm as she walks hurriedly across the room to greet Stephanie. Their embrace is vigorous enough that Holly flinches slightly. Hannibal, Will, and Alana exchange wondering glances, but they’re also grateful for the interruption.

“I’m so glad you’re okay! More or less…” Stephanie says.

She pulls away, brow furrowing as her hand hovers over Holly’s broken wing. Holly forcefully ignores the observation, a small smile on her face.

“How did you know I was here?” she asks.

“I’m visiting mom…I saw you get out of the car through the front window.”

Will and the others have figured it out before Holly even makes proper introductions. He can practically see another layer of the past settling filmy over the house.

Holly and Stephanie arguing good-naturedly as they step in the door, kicking off shoes and untucking coats and scarves.

Holly and Stephanie giggling late into the night over movies and school and books and boys in the upstairs bedroom.

Holly and Stephanie blearily eating a scrounged breakfast around the table, squinting at the TV screen, muttering almost incoherently over cups of coffee.

Will remembers a picture among the anthology in the hallway. Holly with a blue first-place ribbon in one hand, displaying a proud smile to match Stephanie’s. The two stand before a sign that says “Speed Paint Competition”. A canvas leaning against their legs depicts two shadows on a hill, staring at a vast starry sky, lit by a three-quarter moon.

Expectedly, they want to be alone, want to catch up. Holly hasn’t seen Stephanie in months—and she needs a break from the horrors trying to drag her into their depths.

Stephanie is a lifeline, an anchor. Something untainted by the other dark happenings that have permanently stained the house in her mind.

“Is it alright if we go out back?” Holly asks.

Will is reluctant to let her out of his sight without the walls of Baltimore Psychiatric there to protect her from the great wide world. Before he can advise otherwise, Hannibal places a staying hand on his shoulder and nods to Holly.

“We’ll be right here,” he says.

She smiles a little and follows Stephanie through the backdoor from the kitchen, disappearing down the hill. Alana is on the phone with Jack at the front of the house, delivering the bad news about Stanley Kaye’s murder trophies.

Hannibal leaves his hand on Will’s shoulder, the other tucked into his pocket as he evaluates the dying autumn landscape. It’s just him and Will for the moment.

“Is she how you imagined?” he asks.

“No,” Will replies, “She’s more…forgiving than I expected. More…”

He leaves the word hanging, unable to decide on the adjective to follow. Holly is just more. More than he expected. More than he could have hoped for.

In his mind, Will sees a shimmering flicker of white.

_A crown and a cape of snowy feathers. A dress of something soft and wispy, like mist or cloud. A ballerina with Holly’s face, pale as porcelain and glowing beneath a three-quarter moon. She’s poised on point in the middle of a frozen lake, the ice masking an ink-black mire of blood below._

_The raven-stag and the wendigo observe from the frosty bank_.

“Is she how _you_ imagined?” Will asks.

Hannibal is unperturbed, as he always is when Will turns his own questions on him. He seems to consider, an enigmatic smile ghosting across his lips.

“She is more than I imagined,” he answers.

Will can’t help his own small smile, gazing out the window again.

More, indeed. A fragile, delicate thing, webbed with cracks, threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.

“What do we do with her?” he wonders.

Hannibal casts him a look; this question apparently requires more thought. It nestles in the air between them, patient and expectant.

“We protect her.”

◊◊◊

Holly has been cold ever since they got out of the car. She escaped it for a moment in the solace of Will’s embrace, cradled under his arm, pressed into his side. Now that he’s no longer so close the perpetual shiver has returned, even as she hooks arms with Stephanie.

She’s not entirely sure it has to do with the fast-approaching winter.

The backyard has been spared the treatment of the front of the house, at least. The leaves make a golden carpet beneath their boots as they descend the hill with no particular destination in mind.

When they were in high school, they’d come out and find leaves for Holly to paint, wide flat ones with a little green still in their stalks. It would take time and patience, things teenagers aren’t known to have in spades, but the girls found joy in throwing big handfuls of dead vegetation at each other when the task grew weary.

“How’s your shoulder doing?” Stephanie asks, “Does it hurt?”

Holly frowns, moves her neck as much as she can to relieve the dull ache from supporting her arm.

“Sometimes,” she replies, “I need physical therapy, they said.”

Stephanie frowns in sympathy and pats Holly’s forearm. Holly remembers that Stephanie once broke her leg in eighth grade, and that she’d missed hours of school going to appointments once the cast had been removed. She’d always complained and fallen asleep in class afterwards.

“You should have seen the news. They were swarming the place. Mom said it was crazy,” Stephanie says.

Holly snorts softly. She’s almost grateful she was unconscious for that, in all honesty. She’s not sure how she could have handled listening to people talk about her family. What they would have said about her father. About her.

“I’m not exactly surprised,” Holly replies.

Stephanie nods, a small frown on her face.

“There were all sorts of people that were suddenly your best friend in high school and who came over all the time,” she adds.

Holly’s eyebrows arch. A little odd that someone would leap at the opportunity to be friends—even through reputation—with a serial killer. That’s not to say she’s surprised by that either, though.

“Do you remember Katie Becker?”

Holly nods without hesitation. How could she forget? In middle school and their early years of high school, Katie was very much the stereotypical bully, emulating rich, popular girls from TV. Later on she outgrew the showmanship, but she was no less cruel.

“I guess she still works at her dad’s restaurant downtown, and she had a whole lot to say about you,” Stephanie continues, “I punched her in the face when I saw her the other day.”

Holly’s mouth drops open in horror, but her lips unexpectedly curl up with delight. The imagery isn’t hard to imagine, considering Stephanie did the same thing sophomore year in the girl’s locker room, and got suspended for her trouble.

“You punched Katie Becker in the face? Steph, you could have been charged with assault or something!” Holly says.

Stephanie shrugs, proudly brandishing the dusting of bruises on her knuckles, like combat medals.

“She hasn’t pressed charges and I doubt she will. She should have seen it coming,” she replies.

“You didn’t have to do that on my behalf,” Holly giggles, “though, I appreciate it.”

Stephanie isn’t the least bit sorry, she knows. Even if she apologized, the Cheshire cat grin and pleased tone of voice would give her away.

“Well, she deserved it for encouraging those rumors that you helped him.”

The smile drops from Holly’s face, fluttering away like another leaf on the breeze. She stares at the damp earth beneath her feet, heart heavy.

“I didn’t help him,” she whispers.

Stephanie squeezes her arm gently, truly apologetic this time. They stop, she hugs Holly gingerly again, wary of her injury, but it’s familiar and reassuring anyway. Tears prick at Holly’s eyes.

“I know. I believe you,” Stephanie replies.

“I don’t.”

The two jerk apart. Startled, they turn to the very bottom of the hill where a man is emerging from the border of trees that act as a natural property line. He stops once he’s clear of the forest boundary, close enough that Holly can see dark smudges under eyes that glint with a desperate sort of craze.

“This is private property, so fuck off,” Stephanie snaps.

She takes a half step forward and pushes Holly back, planting herself firmly between Holly and the man. He ignores Stephanie, wild eyes focused solely on her.

“How did you do it?” he asks, “Did you chat up the men, bring them home for daddy to kill? Or did you help him do that too? Did you help him arrange the bodies? Was it your or him that decided my brother should be the magician?”

The more he speaks, the angrier he gets, voice lifting, straining, breaking. White-hot panic claws up Holly’s throat as he takes a step closer. Stephanie is scanning the ground, probably looking for a weapon, but Holly latches onto her arm and jerks her towards the hill.

The man closes the distance another step and she loses her nerve. Fight or flight, and she’s in no condition for combat.

“Will!” she screams, “Hannibal!”

She doesn’t release her grip on Stephanie as she scrambles up the hill. Has it always been this steep? Her shoulder jostles in the sling in her fright, pain blossoming from the wound but she ignores it, fueled on adrenaline. Holly glances behind her just once and the man is reaching for her, a savage, violent snarl on his face.

Stephanie finally gets a firm hold of Holly’s good arm and drags her upright, simultaneously kicking out at the man. He shouts in pain as the heel of her boot connects with flesh, affording them a few precious more moments to escape.

Hannibal and Will rush from the house, the latter already reaching for the gun strapped to his hip. Relief bursts in Holly’s chest, makes the pain fade for a moment longer as she sprints to them, to safety.

“Will! Hannibal!”

Will situates himself between the two women and their pursuer, expression determined, jaw set. Holly doesn’t stop running until she very nearly collides with Hannibal. He calmly collects her in his arms as she quakes and pants, hands clenching in his shirt and likely wrinkling the expensive fabric.

“You’re alright. We’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs.

Holly tries to glance behind her but Hannibal doesn’t allow her to move, instead forces her to focus on her shoulder as he begins feeling around the bandage. Now that she’s safe, the ache has returned. She hisses quietly at his prodding but doesn’t dare stop him.

“I don’t believe you’ve pulled your stitches,” he says, “Are you otherwise unharmed?”

She nods and leans into him again, clutching onto his jacket. The sound of footsteps reaches her ears and this time Hannibal lets her see. Will is approaching, shaking his head and holstering his gun again. She assumes this means the man got away.

“Are you two alright?” he asks.

Will stations himself at Holly and Hannibal’s sides, running a hand up and down her back soothingly. Holly nods, glancing at Stephanie worriedly. Her confirmation is just as shaky, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“Did you recognize him?”

She shakes her head this time, curling inwards despite herself. Her heart is still threatening to flee from her ribcage, hammering at the bone to fly away to safety.

“Did he say anything?” Hannibal asks.

Holly’s mouth has gone dry as the desert, but Stephanie manages to find her voice.

“He thinks she helped her father. He was talking about his brother or something,” she explains.

Holly shifts, looking up at Hannibal and then at Will.

“The magician,” she says quietly, “He asked if we turned him into the magician. What—what did he mean?”

Will visibly tenses, eyes flashing with inner conflict. She doesn’t think he’s going to answer at all until he opens his mouth, an explanation on the tip of his tongue. The thrush and crunch of leaves underfoot interrupts him, all eyes turning to behold Katie Becker stalking up from the side of the house.

It’s really not terribly surprising that she’d be aware of Holly’s presence too. Katie has a view into Holly’s yard from her house and with all their screaming, it’s no surprise that she came to investigate.

She’s got a badly concealed black eye and Holly can’t help but fixate on the mottled skin with a renewed admiration for her friend.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stephanie snarls.

Holly envies her the ability to recover from the encounter with the man so quickly. Then again, she always has been a little closer to danger.

Well, that’s not exactly true either, Holly corrects herself. Stephanie didn’t live with a serial killer for eighteen years.

“Unbelievable,” Katie scoffs, “that you’d actually show your face here again, after everything. And you just brought more of the crazy with you.”

Will stiffens and Holly thinks of Freddie Lounds and her cruel words. How she tried to twist Holly against him when he’s been nothing but kind and comforting. She decides then that she doesn’t like Freddie Lounds, nearly as much as she doesn’t like Katie Becker.

This expedition has turned into a disaster and Holly feels it weigh on her like a physical burden. She wilts against Hannibal further, shoulders slumping.

She doesn’t want Katie near her, shouting all the accusations she’s been desperately trying to avoid. She doesn’t want Stephanie getting involved, getting infected with this madness. She doesn’t want to keep putting Will and Hannibal in these situations where they have to save her.

“The only crazy one here is you,” Stephanie snaps, “Go away!”

“Steph,” Holly says, “it’s alright. I should probably head back soon anyway.”

Stephanie hesitates a moment, but reluctantly acquiesces, clasping her hand with Holly’s.

“Call me, okay?” she says.

Holly nods, mustering up the pale ghost of a smile and squeezes Stephanie’s hand. She doesn’t have a phone, but she’s sure she can find some way to communicate.

“I will,” she replies.

Stephanie casts one last scalding glance at Katie before walking away with a parting wave over her shoulder to Hannibal and Will. Holly feels bereft without Stephanie’s presence to keep the monsters at bay.

The cloying darkness of her house, the ugly daylight of society and their accusations.

Hannibal places his hand on the small of her back, gentle but firm, and nudges her towards the house.

“Shall we go inside? I think you’ve had enough for today,” he says.

Holly nods, tucking into his side, and winces when Katie makes a comment about killers returning to the scenes of their crimes.

“What about her?” she asks.

Will and Hannibal exchange glances over Holly’s head. There’s a brief pause before the latter replies.

“Nothing. People like her are best left ignored. Acknowledging their poor behavior only causes you to stoop to their level.”

Holly’s shoulders drop with a helpless sort of relief that she has permission to avoid the consequences of her father’s actions just a little while longer. She can avoid further confrontation for today.

Katie hurls another insult as they walk the rest of the way up the hill, to the back porch. Will’s expression pinches with poorly concealed aggravation as he casts a surreptitious look over his shoulder.

“That being said, there are times when one has to shoo the buzzards off,” he says.

Hannibal follows his gaze more languidly, withdrawing from Hollys slightly.

“Yes, I’m afraid Will may be right in this instance,” he replies, “Excuse me for a moment.”

He turns and begins sauntering back the way they just came, cool as the autumn breeze, and remote as the middle of the forest. Will inserts himself in the space Hannibal just occupied before the shivering can begin again, his arm around her shoulders as before.

He sees the question in her features.

“Hannibal is better with people than I am, he’ll take care of it,” he explains, “You should know that he and I will protect you, Holly, in whatever way we can.”

Holly nods immediately, allows Will to guide her through the kitchen door. Alana meets them in the doorway to the living room, worried and grim.

“What happened? I heard screaming…”

Will recounts the story, vaguely, and Holly’s not sure if it’s because she’s quickly losing the motivation to stand, or because he doesn’t want her to start shaking again. Either way, they soon find themselves sitting on the on the front porch steps, Alana inside, waiting to speak to Hannibal.

Holly rests her head on Will’s shoulder and breathes in the scent of his old coat. He smells like dogs and the outdoors and vaguely of an aftershave that tickles her nose. Silence settles ill-fitting over them for a little while before she gathers the courage to ask.

“What did that man mean about the magician?”

Will sighs a little, resigned. He knew this question would come eventually, he just wishes it was one she’d asked with Hannibal or Alana present to soften his unwitting bluntness.

“The murders were arranged like tarot cards—death, the hangman, the magician…”

She absorbs this in another beat of silence, mind reeling. The cards themselves, as they traditionally appear, come to mind. She doesn’t have faces for the victims but she hardly needs them as her imagination translates drawing into realism. Her stomach clenches.

“They called him the Psychic Psycho, then?” she says.

They both look to the spray-paint graffiti and Will grimaces.

“Yes, among other alliterations. They’re…distasteful to say the least. They lack imagination—as awful as I’m sure that sounds.”

Holly shakes her head, forgiving him the odd words. She understands what he means, and she’s grateful. His attempt at comfort is endearing.

Her brain is more interested in her father’s fixation, a man who was himself an atheist making a pagan practice the focal point of his murders. Holly jolts upright so quickly her head very nearly knocks into Will’s chin.

It’s the quickest she’s moved in weeks. Her head spins. The world tilts.

“I think I know what he did with the skin.”


	4. Descend

The moments after Holly’s epiphany are a blur. Will catches her as she pitches sideways, before her head can collide with a post supporting the porch railing. She slouches into him as he rummages in his pocket for his phone.

She doesn’t register much of the conversation that follows. The rushing in her ears has returned. The world seems cacophonous; she can’t make out anything distinct around the roar. Will, she thinks, is speaking, and he might even be arguing, but about what is beyond her.

She falls down the rabbit hole of her father’s madness and she’s afraid the images swimming in front of her eyes might be more than just imagination. A crimson curtain falls over Holly’s eyes, blotched with black, and only when she feels a sturdy hand on her uninjured shoulder does she realize it’s because she’s hyperventilating.

“Holly, look at me.”

With difficulty, she forces her eyes to focus on a calm, collected Hannibal. He’s kneeling on the porch step in front of her, waiting patiently for her attention, as if infinite time resides in this one moment. When their gazes meet, he inclines his head slightly, as if to impart something of great importance and confidence.

“You’re alright. Just breathe.”

Slowly, the panic ebbs and she swallows back her fear. Whether she’s correct or not about the purpose of the missing skin, her father can’t hurt her or anyone else anymore. He’s dead.

Holly repeats it as a mantra. He’s dead; he’s dead; he’s dead.

_Why is that so comforting?_

At some point, Will shrugged off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers in the material, made soft from continual wash and wear. Holly curls her fingers in the edges and tugs it closer around her, as if she could disappear inside the cotton and polyester.

When she feels less like the pit inside her is going to swallow her whole, she inhales quietly.

“I think I’ve had enough for the day,” she says quietly.

Something that might be amusement plays in Hannibal’s eyes for a moment.

“I have to agree with you. Do you feel well enough to stand?” he asks.

Holly nods even though she’s uncertain and accepts Will’s help to stand. Her legs feel like the bones liquefied; she imagines this must be how fowls feel walking for the first time. Still, she manages to get down the porch steps with a little help and crosses to the car autonomously.

Will doesn’t ask for his jacket back and Holly doesn’t offer as she tucks into the backseat. Her head tilts back against the headrest as they pull smoothly into the street. She watches her house slip away numbly.

In the back of her mind, she remembers that Alana had been there and Holly didn’t even say goodbye. She tells herself she’ll apologize later and wonders vaguely if she really means it.

“Holly, it’ll be a little while before we reach the hospital. You should try to rest,” Will says.

She sighs and buries herself into the seat as much as she can.

“I had a nightmare last night,” she replies, “I’m afraid I’ll have another.”

Will glances at her in the rearview. At first she thinks she sees sympathy—or worse pity. Alana Bloom has taken, like most of the hospital staff, to regarding her with equal helpings of both. It sets Holly’s teeth on edge.

She just wants to be alone with her grief and her fear. She doesn’t want to be poked at and quantified and recorded. She doesn’t want the soft, consoling voice or the worried glances when Doctor Bloom thinks she doesn’t notice.

What Holly sees in Will’s eyes is different. It is empathy; it is kindred. He has nightmares too.

“Try,” Hannibal suggests, “Even if you are afraid, facing your dreams is the first step to conquering them. Will and I will be here to wake you if you become distressed.”

Holly offers up the closest thing to a smile she can manage. She pulls the sleeves of the coat over her frigid fingers, trying to trap in as much heat as she can.

“I feel like I’m always distressed,” she says.

A hint of the frustration that’s been steadily building inside her leaks into her tone. Hannibal graciously ignores that it might be rude.

“You’ve been through a lot, Holly. It’s only natural.”

She nods and rests her head against the seat again, eyes fluttering closed. It helps knowing Will and Hannibal are there. They saved her once—surely they can save her again.

Holly sleeps and she doesn’t dream.

◊◊◊

 

The day feels somehow colder than the last, even though a cheerful weatherman on the radio informed them that it’s a full two degrees warmer. Holly accidentally kept Will’s jacket the night before, but seeing as how he brought another one today, she’s decided to commandeer it again to brace against the cold.

Jack Crawford is waiting for them with a small battalion of FBI agents. He is unexpectedly expected. Holly imagined him stoic and imposing and that’s exactly what she sees guarding the front walk to the house. His hands are buried deep in his coat pockets as he eyes Holly’s approach, sandwiched between Hannibal and Will.

“Miss Kaye, I’m Jack Crawford, head of the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI.”

His hand engulfs hers as they exchange introductions. It’s almost surreal, trading pleasantries, engaging in the rules of society, when the reason they’re here in the first place is so outside law and convention. It niggles at her mind distractingly.

Will explained they usually wouldn’t involve her in finding the evidence directly, but they already searched the house top to bottom. For the sake of time, effort, and money, they’ll let her retrieve the remains for them—if she’s right, that is.

That seems almost as frightening a prospect as finding them at all.

“Are you ready, Miss Kaye?” Crawford asks.

Holly nods and braces herself as they begin past the lab workers, Will preceding through the throng. They part for the small parade with thinly-veiled expressions, and she pretends she can’t hear the whispering. The walkway is suddenly a perverse red carpet, unfurling twisted and dreary ahead of them.

They proceed into the front hall, at which point Will cedes his position to Holly. Haltingly, she leads them further into the house, past the kitchen and den and dining room to the stairs in the back. The door to the basement stands open beneath the steps, but she ascends instead.

Holly notes the dust that’s been collecting on the bannister and doesn’t touch the railing, even with her arm in the sling. She automatically avoids the step that creaks and accounts for the one that’s slightly higher than the rest while most of the others stumble.

At the top, she slips past the guest bedroom on the left and the bathroom across from it. Her father’s bedroom is the second door on the right, left unlocked. Holly has to overpower the urge to knock instinctively, the aborted movement making her shoulders stiff.

The bed is still rumpled from the last time he slept in it. It almost impossible to recall them sitting on the couch the night before he died, laughing at a comedy they rented before they’d mutually turned in. Had he known he’d try to kill her the next day?

She ignores the picture of her and him and her mother from once upon a time on the nightstand and focuses on the closet instead. This is the hardest part.

It still smells like his cologne and aftershave, their laundry detergent. His clothes are gone, at least, and his shoes and ties and belts. It helps. She stands beneath the square in the ceiling and waits for someone to find a ladder.

Holly remembers, suddenly and distinctly, waking up in the middle of the night once. Bleary and thirsty, she stumbled from her room to see her father awake, carrying a ladder down the hall. When she asked what he was doing, he calmly told her he was fixing a lightbulb in his bathroom.

Will gently ushers her to the side as he sets up the ladder. He climbs up first and there’s a moment before fluorescent light shines in the place of darkness. Hannibal aids Holly up and Will receives her on the other side.

The ceiling is just high enough for her, Will, and Alana to stand more or less comfortably, but Hannibal and Jack Crawford have to stoop a little. Holly remembers her father always had to watch his head with the support beams.

“This isn’t the attic we investigated,” Will says.

Holly points to the thin wooden wall on her right.

“The house had additions added a long time ago. They never tore down the partition between this side of the attic and the other,” she explains, “It’s only accessible through my—through the master bedroom.”

Her eyes skim over the small space. She hasn’t been up here in years, not since her art supplies began taking refuge in the basement. Now she supposes she knows why, apart from her father’s insistence that this was too inconvenient.

Did he start killing right after that or before? Did he wait longer just in case?

The shelves at the far wall catch her attention. They’re stacked high with abandoned art supplies—some her mother’s, some undoubtedly her fathers. Towers of blank and half-finished canvases, congregations of dried out paintbrushes, a smattering of crusted palettes, and seemingly endless heaps of worn sketchbooks.

Holly crosses the room, minding noisy spots when Hannibal warns her to be careful. Will trails behind her and retrieves a plastic bin from the highest shelf when she points to it.

It’s noticeably less dusty than the rest of the attic’s forgotten objects; no one says so when Will places the box on the ground. Crawford lends Holly a pair of white latex gloves that she shakily slips on as she kneels on the floor, feet tucked beneath her.

Holly’s hands hover over the box, breath rattling as she prepares herself for whatever she may find. After a moment, Will kneels on the floor beside her and places a hand on her shoulder. She glances first at him, and then Hannibal who nods once, almost imperceptibly.

Stomach clenching, throat tight, Holly plunges her hands into the bin, removing items and setting them around her in a sea of lost trinkets. Will picks up a stray drawing, yellowing with age and stylized differently from the others he seen. He analyzes it for a moment before handing it to a curious Hannibal.

A young Holly smiles impishly from the page, lovingly sketched and shaded with pencil. In the picture, her face is round and bright with youth, eyes alight with brazen mischief as she stares the viewer down.

It’s a version of Holly that they’ve only seen glimpses of so far, but that they both know still resides inside her, somewhere.

“My mother drew that one. She was an amazing artist. I learned from her,” she explains.

Her voice is quiet, hoarse; her eyes are fixated on the box as she finally reaches what she’s been looking for. It’s a wooden container, simply built, but painted with intricate, meticulous design. Holly’s hands visibly shake as she lifts it, staring at the hand-varnished exterior with open terror.

It’s vaguely familiar, like something she saw in a dream, but phantom sensations hint at a long buried memory. A cool fall day, the taste of pumpkin and sugar on her tongue, her mother’s warm voice patiently warning her to mind the paint.

A white glove slowly enters Holly’s line of vision, gently landing on her wrist.

“I’ll do it,” Will murmurs

She lets him pry the box from her petrified hands, indescribably grateful for his offer. He flicks the tarnished golden clasp to the lid open, swings it back on loose hinges. The interior is carpeted in rich midnight-blue velvet flecked with glittering bits of silver, housing a half-full deck of cards.

Will picks up the topmost one for inspection. Holly’s eyes skim over the familiar symbol at the top first, the unassuming vines and roses, and recognizes hand-made brush strokes. It’s too terrible to look, and too terrible not to, and Holly’s eyes drift from the bottom up.

More tangled vines of roses greet her eyes first. Then the table edge, the wooden staff, the cup, a butcher knife has replaced the traditional dagger, the pentagram is carved in the wood of the table rather than imprinting a gold disk.

Holly’s chest constricts as her perusal unwillingly continues to a pair of jeans and a blood-stained white long-sleeved shirt, rather than the robes she expects. A blood red jacket—whether stained that color or manufactured that way she can only guess. Her stomach lurches as she recognizes that the snake belt has been replaced by length of intestine.

Holly can’t look at the face—not yet—her eyes follow the arm extended over his head, hand clutching a rib to replace the candle lit at both ends. His other arm is down, pointed just so.

Finally, she can’t procrastinate any longer. Her eyes reluctantly land on the vaguely familiar face. She never saw Nicolas Williams before, but he’s uncannily similar to his brother, Brian Williams, who attacked Holly and Stephanie in the woods the day before.

Over his head, an infinity symbol made of intestine suspends.

“This is it,” Will says, “he made tarot cards with the skin. He painted the crime scenes.”

Holly quails, hearing the words she knew to be true as soon as he opened the box confirmed aloud. She knows her eyes are too big for her face again. Her brain feels detached from her body but her kinesthesis communicates that she’s swaying slightly.

Someone’s hands are at her shoulder and elbow, a suggestion to move. Holly struggles to make her feet cooperate as she recognizes Hannibal’s murmur about going downstairs.

That sounds just as bad, knowing she’ll just have to confront her father’s empty room, but the attic is suddenly claustrophobic. Jack Crawford has forsaken personal space to get at the _evidence_ , rifling through the tarots.

Hannibal guides her gently to the open square where the ladder waits. They don’t get more than a two feet away before Crawford calls after them.

“Hold on a moment,” he says, “Miss Kaye, do you recognize this person?”

He crosses the distance she and Hannibal tread so slowly in a few great strides. Each step matches her heartbeat hammering against her sternum, too fast and too slow. She sees the card in his gloved hand just as he holds it in front of her face.

“Jack,” Alana calls.

It’s meant as a warning to him, but it feels like she’s trying to warn Holly as well. It’s too late, she already knows by the panic tinging her voice. Holly’s eyes settle on the card for a fraction of a moment too long to mistake the rendering.

Hannibal’s grip on her bicep tightens fractionally.

“Th-that’s my mother…”

She shoves Hannibal out of the way with more force than anyone thought she possessed, enough to slip away. Her graceless scramble down the ladder nearly topples it over and traps the four of them in the attic.

Hannibal spares a fleeting thought for Holly’s injured shoulder, and how the constant abuse is hindering the healing process. He recovers from her sudden flight first and slips down the ladder after her, quicker because of his calm. Jack is right behind him, accustomed to recovering from shock.

They don’t have to go far. Holly’s collapsed barely a few feet from the door to the master bedroom to retch. Her skin is ashen and shines with a thin layer of sweat, the fingers of her uninjured hand curl into the carpet. She’s shaking so badly she can hardly support herself.

Hannibal kneels beside her and helps her to her feet again, his sensitive nose burning at the acidic odor of bile. She slumps against him, head ducked low, eyes unseeing.

He’s taken to protecting this fragile thing and he allows himself to give Jack a disapproving look that does not hint at the greater being beneath. It doesn’t hint at the indignant rage simmering beneath his cool exterior.

“Satisfied now, Jack?”

Crawford nods once, regret and grim acceptance twisting his mouth into a pursed line.

“Get her out of here,” he says.

Hannibal maneuvers Holly around the vomit soaking into the carpet and remembers the bathroom by the stairs. She does little more than go through the motions of movement, dropping onto the toilet lid only when Hannibal places his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Holly,” he says, “look at me.”

Her eyes drift listlessly to his face for a moment, before dropping to the easier target of his tie. He presses his palm to her forehead, her cheek. Her eyelids flutter like butterfly’s wings, gaze sharpening just slightly, brow furrowing.

“Am I in shock?” she asks.

“That depends,” he replies, “what do you feel?”

Holly opens her mouth to answer before shutting it again. Her bottom lip trembles but she inhales deeply, like his instructions from the day before are replaying promptly in her mind. When she finally does respond, her voice is quiet and cracked, like breaking ice.

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Both.”

She swallows audibly and Hannibal sees her lurch slightly at the taste in her mouth.

“I feel…like I’m in pain.”

She readjusts the sling, touching her shoulder lightly. The stitches have been removed, but the skin still feels thin, and the newly healed muscle protests loudly and often.

“And I’m scared. And overwhelmed,” she adds.

Hannibal gently smooths her disheveled hair back. The gesture is distinctly nonclinical, but it doesn’t seem to strike her as odd or inappropriate. She leans into the soothing gesture, despite her hands clutched together tightly in her lap.

“I—I want to brush my teeth and…” she pauses as a shiver wracks her, “Could I have a moment?”

Hannibal feels vaguely gratified that despite her current state the request is polite, even lacking “please”. He nods and straightens. Down the hallway, he can hear Jack and Alana arguing, Will angrily chiming in time and again.

Hannibal should diffuse Will before he loses his temper; it’ll give Holly a moment to collect herself.

“I will be back in just a moment. Wait here,” he says.

When she nods, he leaves her, sidestepping the vomitus again as he enters the room. Will catches his eye and meets him near the door. Worry has etched itself into the tired lines of his face, crowding out the presence of Stanley Kaye in the empathic spaces of his mind.

“Is she okay?” Will asks.

“She’s in the bathroom cleaning up. I’ll keep Jack’s attention here. You should get Holly a washcloth for her head,” Hannibal replies.

Will frowns, because he knows that the reason Hannibal avoided a direct answer is that they both already know it. Holly is never going to be the same again. If not before then now, certainly.

She’s so very close to shattering beyond repair, and no one is especially sure what will happen if she does.

_All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…_

Hannibal nods to the bathroom attached to Stanley Kaye’s bedroom, where a cardboard box full of clean linens has been left. Will understands without having to be told, remembering Hannibal’s suggestion about the wet cloth.

They part ways, Hannibal joining Alana and Jack near the closet as Will slips into the bathroom, unnoticed.

“I told you what would happen if you pushed her too far, Jack, and you did just that. You may have caused irreparable damage to her psyche,” Alana is saying.

Will has already stopped listening, although hearing Jack get a thorough telling off is a rare and miraculous spectacle. At the moment, Holly needs him as focused as he’s capable of being. Knowing that Hannibal’s reprimands are as harsh as any blow will be enough for now.

Will’s mind, halfway between the lenses of his various perspectives, expects blood to pour from the faucet. The antithesis of the cold, clear water stinging his hands shocks him. He quickly soaks the cloth and closes the pipe again, wringing out the excess.

It’s just as he’s about to go to Holly that a scream punctures the air. Will bolts from the room, the washcloth forgotten in the sink. The hallway isn’t especially long, but it feels like miles before he finally reaches her, cornered in her previous bedroom.

Holly’s crying. It occurs to him that he hasn’t seen her cry yet. It’s always been a suggestion brimming in her eyes and sparkling on her lashes, but now they slip down her cheeks in a torrid, salty rain. Her expression is twisted into shock and horror and fear that usually only roils below the surface.

If she’s noticed his presence, she doesn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes are fixed on the middle of the room. The bed has been pushed away from the wall where it rested beneath the window.

The bloodied, naked corpse of Katie Becker sits at the end, propped up by an array of pillows.

A crown of bones rests on her lolling head, tangled in hair that’s already losing its luster. Her hand is suspended with a length of fishing wire; rigor mortis has long set it in, stiffening her fingers around a human femur. A necklace of teeth hangs about her neck—undoubtedly hers.

The Roman numeral three has been carved into her cheek. Among the mottling discoloration already beginning to marble her bloodless skin, flowers seem to have been etched into the flesh as well.

Will doesn’t need any of the lab techs to inform him that most of these additions were made pre-mortem. He doesn’t need to stretch his empathic abilities far to realize the killer is humiliating Katie Becker, mocking her. He doesn’t need any investigation to know who the killer is.

He sighs inaudibly as Hannibal, Jack, and Alana, right on his heels, finally catch a glimpse of the crime scene. Alana gasps. Jack swear. Hannibal is silent.

Holly is making a weak sound, something between a whimper and a gasp. It tears at something inside Will a little to hear the sad, broken noise. He takes her arm and tugs her from the corner she’s backed herself into without prompting.

“Get her out of here!” Jack bellows, “Go!”

Will ducks past before Jack can make a grab for him. He hasn’t thought of what mix of lies and truth to give just yet, he’s more focused on Holly and her deteriorating sanity.

_The storm has finally descended_.

She stumbles blindly down the hallway; he very nearly has to carry her down the stairs. The chaos wreaking havoc in her mind is breaking loose into hysterics. Too powerful to be subdued any longer, they make it as far as the kitchen.

_The fractured surface of the frozen lake ruptures and the ballerina is submerged in the blood below_.

Holly clings to him, sobbing loud and wet into his shirt as he sinks to the floor, back to the cabinets. One arm circles around the natural curve of her waist, his hand rubbing soothing circles over her back. The other arm props himself up to counterbalance the weight she’s pressing into his side.

When he glances up, slightly aghast at her distress, Hannibal is standing in the doorway, observing them with the analytical curiosity of a scientist conducting an experiment. Will supposes that’s exactly what he’s doing. At the moment, Will is less inclined to appreciate his God-complex.

“Holly, it’s alright. You’re alright. Nothing is going to hurt you,” Will murmurs.

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and buries her face in the collar of his shirt. A ragged gasp rips from her lungs and rocks her trembling frame. Apparently concluding that his assistance is required, Hannibal crosses and crouches down behind and to the side of Holly.

_The ballerina struggles to swim, but blood is thicker than water, and tidal waves are crashing over her head._

Alana appears in the doorway at the same moment and joins them much more quickly, dropping down on Will’s other side. She looks slightly taken aback by Holly’s behavior towards Will over anyone else. He looks like he’s up a creek with no paddle, unaccustomed to comforting anyone.

“Holly,” she tries, “Holly, let him go.”

She touches Holly’s arm gently, and Holly jerks away as if she’s been struck. Will’s arm falls away from her waist when she lurches back and hits the ground, nearly landing on his leg.

“Don’t touch me!” she yelps, “D—don’t touch me!”

Her breath is coming hard and fast and now, skin pale and tracked with tears. She’s shaking so hard Will half expects the room to shake with her. Hannibal sees the anxiety she’s sinking in, the blind panic and illogical fear finally sucking her under.

He pivots slightly and pulls her to him. The movement is quick and precise, unfaltering, unexpected by anyone. Holly’s arms are trapped between their chests, her legs are folded beneath her own weight, minimizing her ability to struggle.

Not that she does.

Her muscles spasm for a moment, hands fluttering like caged birds, before they go still. He tucks her head beneath his chin and rocks slightly. Cradled in her restraint. It’s somehow both tender and firm.

“You must calm down, Holly. It’s alright. Will and I are here,” Hannibal says.

If Alana is disturbed by the particular phrasing, Hannibal and Will don’t notice. It doesn’t matter what protests she may have because even as Holly dissolves into tears again, the sharp edges have smoothed to dull.

_The worst of the storm has raged and departed. The winds still gust and the rain still trickles over the churning blood lake, but no longer cataclysmic._

Eventually, the shaking of constrained emotion eases to and intermittent tremor of exhaustion. Holly’s tears finally cease and the kitchen is silent save for her quiet breathing.

_The blood lake stills again, as though another layer of ice has subdued its writhing surface. But the ice has eternally shattered and thawed despite the frost clinging to the bank._

Will dislodges himself from the cabinets to crawl to them. Hannibal relaxes his grip enough that Holly can wriggle an arm free to reach for Will’s hand. Her skin is cool and clammy, but Will’s warmth begins to seep into her fingers immediately.

_The raven-stag and the wendigo wade into the murky crimson shallows. The ballerina, her feathers caked in blood, ebbs and flows with the tide into their embrace, prostrate_.

Alana sits back against the cabinets, flabbergasted. Hannibal and Will have hardly spent time with Holly, it seems so improbable that their touch would sooth where hers could not.

But then they both feel responsible for her—no, not responsible, _protective._ They’re protective of Holly because they saved her from her father, and she allows them for the very same reason. Alana’s conversations with Holly have already implied that she may have a hero-worship complex for them.

It’s a dangerous cycle they’ve unwittingly fallen into, one feeding the other. If they fail her in some way, in any way, it could damage Holly’s faith in others permanently. And that’s the very best-case scenario. At the worst, these behaviors could become toxic.

Alana almost expects it of Will. He couldn’t save the people Stanley Kaye killed, or even Stanley Kaye himself, but he’s saved Holly and he can keep saving her. He doesn’t often get to feel like a hero or even crave it. This is gratitude and recognition on a scale he can handle—from a source he accepts.

But for Hannibal to fall into a trap? Careful, meticulous Hannibal, who even installs measures of distance between himself and those closest to him. It nearly dazes Alana. Surely he must recognize what’s going on. He’ll break the cycle, correct the behaviors. Perhaps coming from him, it’ll even be easier on Holly.

Hannibal and Holly shift to rest more comfortably, but she still resides in the safety of his embrace. She still needs an anchor.

When she speaks, her voice is soft and raw.

“Whoever did that…were they trying to imitate my father?” she asks.

Will squeezes her hand and doesn’t allow his eyes to dart to Hannibal.

“Yes,” he replies, “but it was not your father. Your father is dead.”

She nods, sniffles a little. Her eyes flutter shut as Hannibal brushes away the lingering tears so that she doesn’t have to remove her hand from Will’s.

“That was the empress,” she says.

Will leans closer, surprised by her knowledge, although he knows he shouldn’t be. Hannibal would not truss up a body for her if she wouldn’t be able to comprehend its meaning.

“What can you tell us about it?” Will asks.

“It’s supposed to signify femininity, fertility, abundance, fruition…” she explains, “This was different though. It’s not…not the same as the card.”

She doesn’t add that the figure itself represents creativity and support for artists. It feels strange to even think it, to conceptualize the juxtaposition between the symbolism and the reality.

It feels strange to think of someone killing Katie Becker and perverting her corpse into a message of…what? Kindness? Support?

As if to correct in death what she had been in life.

Holly’s head spins. She should leave this though process to Will.

“How do you know about this?” Alana asks.

Holly startles. She forgot that it wasn’t just the three of them in the kitchen. Her scattered mind reassembles itself and she manages to answer, if a little tremulously from her internal musings.

“My grandmother and mother were spiritual people—pagans. My grandmother used to read tarots for her friends and family, and my mother shared her beliefs. While they were alive, they would teach me about the cards and their meanings. A lot of it stayed with me.”

She shrugs minutely, but her eyes have fallen to the kitchen tiles beneath them. Will nods and gently squeezes her hand in both thanks and apology.

Jack Crawford chooses that moment to appear in the kitchen doorway, staring perplexedly at them all huddled on the floor.

“What’s going on?” he asks warily.

“Holly was having a moment,” Hannibal explains, “but now I think it’s time she went home and rested.”

Holly doesn’t say that the hospital isn’t her home. She doesn’t really _have_ a home. The contract on her apartment ended a week ago and she’s hasn’t found it in herself to do anything about it. She also doesn’t correct Hannibal’s massive understatement about her “moment”.

Jack frowns. He wants to ask more about the dead woman upstairs, but he knows that he may have a riot on his hands if his answer is anything other than agreement with Hannibal. Hiding his defeat, he steps out of the way.

“Go ahead, Doctor Lecter,” he replies.

Holly clambers to her feet first and feels embarrassed by Hannibal’s fluid movement to stand. He smooths his rumbled shirt and vest out, despite the tears stains, and she studies the floor again.

He places his palm flat on the small of her back and nudges her towards the doorway. Will stands as well, fully intent on following but Jack’s voice stops them.

“Not you, Will. We still need you upstairs.”

Holly stumbles when Will reluctantly detours back into the house, but Hannibal catches her good arm and keeps her moving with a reassurance that everything will be alright. Alana is behind them and oddly silent. Holly’s not sure if she should apologize for her outburst earlier, or if she even wants to.

Outside, it’s still daylight, somehow, even though the clouds make it dark. Holly feels like it should be the dead of night.

Alana opens her mouth to say something, but Freddie Lounds makes an untimely appearance. She’s gotten past the police tape while the agents are busy with the incoming team to handle Katie Becker’s body. Holly’s nearly glued to Hannibal, so Alana takes the initiative and intercepts Lounds.

They finally reach the car unmolested, and Holly slips into the passenger seat with a sigh, tucking herself into Will’s jacket. She meant to give it back to him today, but now it looks like he’ll have to wait again. It’s for the better anyway—she has a long night ahead of her.

Hannibal settles himself in the driver’s seat and turns the radio to a classical music station. It crowds out the heavy silence but it isn’t obtrusive. Holly dozes to Goldberg Variations as they pull away from the curb, and police lights strobe red and blue across her face.

_The ballerina opens her eyes and blinks away rivulets of blood._


	5. Survive

She can’t sleep.

Even cocooned in Will’s jacket, warm and safe in Baltimore Psychiatric, her mind won’t leave her in peace. She sees Katie Becker, her mother, Bryan Williams painted across the back of her eyelids, flicking through them one by one like an infinite slideshow projection.

When Holly does manage sleep, she’s startled awake by nightmares of accusatory corpses and bloody lakes and forests of bone and feather. She’ll bolt upright in bed, a scream caught in her throat, shoulder aching, tangled in bedsheets. Those times she’ll stare at the ceiling and watch golden dawn crawl like ivy across the ceiling through the tress.

It’s been two days since she found the human tarot cards and she doesn’t feel like she’s rested since the car ride back with Hannibal. It feels more like two decades.

She catches herself longing to see Hannibal and Will again. It’s a childish attachment, she knows, founded in a singular, fatal moment. Holly hardly even knows them, but she wants to. Hannibal radiates serenity and a pervading sort of confidence that complements Will’s endearing warmth and kindness.

With a sigh, she opens her eyes to stare at the knobby shadows of trees on the wall, and tries to banish those thoughts.

The quiet rattle of the knob turning alerts Holly. She frowns—the hospital staff have relatively regular schedules, and the last few nights she’s learned their rotations. This is a full hour ahead of the usual.

She’s debates the merits of pretending to sleep versus asking for something to help ease her into Morpheus’s embrace. The lock clicks and all other thoughts cease. She bolts upright, a prickling sense of danger curling around her spine.

Standing deep in the shadow of the door is Bryan Williams.

“Stay back,” she gasps.

He takes the first step towards her and she tumbles from the bed, landing hard on her tailbone. It’s going to bruise, she’s sure, but the dull pain fades into the background. The room is dark, but she detects the glint of a knife in the scant moonlight trickling in.

“I bet you killed that girl, didn’t you? You’re planning to continue your father’s work,” he hisses, “I’m not going to let you.”

He rounds the bed as he speaks and Holly finds herself cornered, heart pounding. When he lunges, her muscles are already coiled to spring. She flattens herself against the wall and scrambles to her feet, yelping as the blade rips into the flesh of her calf.

Attempting at defense but wary of her bare feet, she kicks at his head and his chin glances off the floor with a _crack_. Holly takes the opportunity while he’s stunned to vault over him and slam her hand into the panic button near the bed.

He latches onto her leg to yank her back, but his grip is slippery from the blood and she manages to wriggle away, diving down on the other side in a graceless tangle of limbs. Bryan Williams finally manages to get to his feet and advances around again.

Holly’s ready for him this time.

She slams her foot into his knee the first chance she gets, ignoring the sickening, wet pop of the joint dislocating. He howls as he hits the ground, his grip loosening on the blade. Holly launches and collides harder than she expects; the blade skitters across the floor.

The orderlies and nurses are banging at the door, trying to force it open. Holly and Bryan Williams wrestle and she finds herself on her back, his good knee digging hard into her ribs. She claws desperately at the hands squeezing around her throat.

“You’re not leaving this room alive,” he snarls.

Holly reaches out blindly, hand flailing for something, _anything_ to give her a few moments to breathe. Her vision is already spotting and fading at the edges, the pain of Bryan Williams’ knee in her ribs dulling out of consciousness. Her knuckles knock into something and she frantically curls her hand around the hilt of the knife.

He suddenly makes a pained noise, his grasp on her neck loosening enough that her abused windpipe can manage air. She inhales deeply, body screaming, and she feels something unnaturally hot and wet soaking into her clothes.

When she glances down, Bryan Williams is bleeding from his abdomen. Their eyes meet for a breathless slice of time. A tremulous connection flutters between them, catalyzed by the blade nestled into soft tissue.

He rolls off her, clutching at the wound and gasping.

The door bursts open and slams against the wall, startling her. A flood of nurses and orderlies rush in, half of them immediately seeing to him and the other warily approaching her.

Belatedly, Holly realizes she’s still got the knife in a death grip. She peels her fingers away from the handle and watches it clatter to the floor, numb again. The nurses begin asking if she’s alright, where she’s hurt, calling to each other to contact Hannibal and Alana.

Holly doesn’t respond, eyes latched onto the expanding puddle a few inches from the abandoned knife. There’s an odd feeling right beneath her bruising ribs that makes her chest feel too light. No one’s thought to turn on the light yet, a white swatch from the doorway their only illumination.

All she can think is that the blood looks black in the moonlight.

◊◊◊

Will’s mind is thick with rage, the edges of his vision tinged crimson. Blood lust coats his tongue slick and coppery, jaw clenching and unclenching as he navigates the road to Baltimore Psychiatric at a speed that borders reckless.

Hannibal is, as always, a pillar of calm—or at least he appears as such. Will knows he’s calculating, taking every variable and circumstance into meticulous consideration. He’s been mostly silent since he received the call, and as Will’s anger builds, he finds an outlet in speaking for the both of them.

“What sort of hospital are they running that a man can just walk in with knife to slaughter patients? Where are all their security measures?”

His voice is too loud and would probably startle someone else—like, Holly.

Hannibal’s eyes finally shift from the blurring polka dot landscape of lights, burning dark and steady into Will’s profile. He’s silent for a few moments, as though he hasn’t already considered those questions himself and stewed over them in his own way.

“Bryan Williams was most likely aware of the nighttime shifts. He may even have been informed of them from an outside source,” he replies.

Will casts him a sharp look before turning his eyes back to the road. His eyes burn with the strain of darkness slivered by harsh, bright lights. He’s used to the isolation of Wolf Trap, the natural light provided by the moon and stars and the golden glow of his lone boat-cabin on the dark sea.

“Freddie Lounds?” he asks.

“Possibly. Alana said she was extremely displeased with Holly’s refusal to speak with her at the crime scene,” Hannibal answers.

Will frowns. So what? Lounds tells Bryan Williams where Holly is, knowing that he’ll attempt to kill her. If she died in the attack, Lounds would have an all access pass to her “truth” and if not, Lounds would try to spin it as another reason to publish that ridiculous book.

“Seems a little too psychopathic, even for Freddie Lounds.”

He spits the name like it’s an insult.

“What impression do we make on our world, so that we may leave a legacy after our deaths? I would not underestimate the lengths any person is willing to go to secure their own legacy,” Hannibal says.

Will’s expression is more dubious this time. His voice is pitched low with barely-contained fury as he speaks again.

“You killed Katie Becker, Hannibal. Did you inform Bryan Williams of Holly’s whereabouts too?”

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth ticks up a fraction, apparently amused by Will’s entirely reasonable suspicion.

“I did not. Between preparing Katie Becker’s body and seeing to you and Holly, I would not have had the time to orchestrate Bryan William’s attack,” he replies.

Will knows that Hannibal isn’t above lying, especially if he’s set up the chessboard just as he’d like it, but this isn’t one of those times. Which leaves Freddie Lounds, and yet another strike against her to convince him she’d serve a higher purpose as a warm meal and an artfully arranged corpse.

They pull into Baltimore Psychiatric and Will parks as close to the front doors as he can, as if the few extra feet will change anything. His grip is too tight on the ceiling wheel. He takes a deep breath and tries to reign in his righteous fury, knowing it isn’t what he—what _she_ —needs right now.

Hannibal places a steadying hand on the crook of his elbow, eyes intent.

“You must try to calm down, for her sake. Holly will need strength and calm in the center of the storm raging around her. She has placed her faith in us. We mustn’t let her down,” he says.

Will’s eyes slip closed as he inhales deeply again.

_The ballerina stares blankly towards a blackened void of starless sky, like a fallen angel remembering the Heaven it was cast from. A single tear slips from the corner of her eye to mingle with the blood._

When he opens his eyes, the hospital swims between perceptions before settling into its proper concrete form again. Will nods, shoulders drooping fractionally and unbuckles his seatbelt.

For the first time, he notices a couple police cars parked crookedly by the curb in front of the main doors.

The woman at the front desk recognizes their faces and doesn’t try asking them to sign in.

“She’s in the next room over,” she says instead.

The door to Holly’s regular room is ajar, ominously silent. Will can’t help but glance inside as they as they pass. The bedside table is toppled, Holly’s few possessions strewn about. The bed has been knocked askew.

There’s more blood than he anticipates. It smudges the far wall, dots the bedsheets and floor. An orderly is somberly mopping up an impressive puddle and Will’s stomach clenches tightly as they hurry to the next door down.

This room is somewhat more lively, a trickle of nurses and officers coming and going. Will seeks Holly out immediately and his body sags with relief when he locates her lying on the bed. A doctor is prodding at her exposed abdomen, ribs bruising black and blue, and she’s wincing beneath the exploratory touch.

Hannibal steps in first, knocking politely on the open door for her attention. She turns curiously and despite the obvious exhaustion and pain, her face lights up when she sees them.

“You came,” she says.

The doctor helps her sit up and Will hears enough of his diagnosis to know that she’s alright—more or less. He notices the fresh white bandage wound snugly around her calf when she swings her legs over the side of the bed, shirt falling back into place.

“Of course,” Hannibal replies, “We came as soon as the hospital called.”

Will is glad he chose to spend the night with Hannibal, or he might not have heard about this until the next day. The thought makes his skin crawl and propels him further into the room, to assure himself that Holly is alive and well and sitting before him.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

She shrugs and nibbles her bottom lip as they approach. Hannibal stands by her knee; Will perches on the edge of the bed next to her. Neither of them fail to notice her wince, her hand jerking up towards her injured shoulder.

“My ribs are bruised and my calf needed a few stitches, but I’m okay otherwise. Physically,” she replies.

Will feels his chest constrict. Her father’s death was supposed to be the end. Instead, it seems like it was the catalyst for something much deadlier. She hasn’t had time begin recovering or coping since she woke from her coma. Another stab of pride and admiration hits him that she’s still somehow coherent after everything.

“I’m sorry that this happened to you…again,” he says.

It sounds grossly inadequate and this time it’s guilt that lances through him. He asked her to trust him, to trust Hannibal, but they’ve hardly done been successful at fulfilling their promise. She was nearly murdered again tonight.

Nevertheless, Holly shakes her head and touches his hand, fingertips warm and gentle. Blood has seeped under her fingernails, dried in the crevices. His other hand rests over top of hers, trapping them in the singular point of contact.

_The ballerina’s hand extends, reaching for them, or perhaps for the distant heavens._

“It’s not your fault,” she replies, “There’s just some supernatural force that apparently wants me dead.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says.

She blinks at him, surprised. For the first time, Will and Hannibal see the expression untainted by horror or fear. If anything, there is a mild curiosity, an invitation for him to continue.

“If some greater force or being wanted to see you dead, it surely would have succeeded the first time, and we would not be having this conversation.”

_The delicate, blood-stained hand falls, the sky and Heaven abandoned._

A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips, like she’s amused but she’s not sure why. Their conversation must seem too morbid for there to be any humor. Hannibal has a way of turning the sordid into something entertaining.

“Are you implying this is all sort of some divine plan?” she asks.

“Some people of faith might call it that, yes. A means to a greater end.”

She tilts her head, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind the significant statement, but Will knows it’s a lost cause. Holly hasn’t learned their intricate dance of language yet, and she’s far too tired to attempt it now.

Whether to comfort her or himself, he loops his arm carefully around her shoulders, pulling her close. Holly leans into him and rests her head on his shoulder, breath feathering along his collarbone. She feels right tucked beneath his chin, and when he glances at Hannibal, he sees something like affection stirring remotely in his depths of his eyes.

_The wendigo lifts the sodden ballerina in his arms and drapes her along the stag’s downy spine. Her fingers curl into the soft feathers, eyelids fluttering again._

“Holly, thank god you’re alright.”

Alana steps through the doorway and comes up short when she sees the three of them huddled around the bed. Her mouth tenses, purses with displeasure, but Holly doesn’t notice because she’s still snuggled against Will and doesn’t appear to be moving any time soon.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Alana asks.

Holly frowns, fingers twitching where one of Will’s hands still cradles hers. The answer is obviously no, but they all know it’s better if she doesn’t keep it bottled up.

Expectedly, she doesn’t make it easy. Her weapon of choice is to hedge, this time.

“I already told the police,” she says, “Bryan Williams came and he had a knife. I got ahold of it and I—I stabbed him. I think they took him to a different hospital already.”

Alana frowns, expression twisting into sympathy, but lets the conversation drop. Silence settles heavy and pregnant in the hospital room, although Will is pretty sure Holly is oblivious from the minute drain of tension from her body.

“Holly, would you excuse me and Doctor Bloom for a moment?” Hannibal says.

“Of course,” she replies.

Her voice sounds absent, quiet. Hannibal turns and nods for Alana to meet him outside, in the hall. Will knows what’s coming already, and half wishes he could hear Hannibal manipulate the situation into getting exactly what he wants—what they both want.

“Did you feel anything when you stabbed him?” Will asks.

Holly stirs a little, but ultimately remains against him, and her voice hasn’t lost the sleepy tone from before.

“I felt numb, then surprised, then…” she pauses, “powerful. Strong.”

He opens his mouth to say something—he’s not sure what, Hannibal is better with this—but Holly makes a quiet noise and he realizes she’s asleep. A moment later, Hannibal and Alana step into the room again.

The former looks meticulously neutral as always, but there’s a gleam in his eye that Will recognizes as victory. Alana’s mouth is still pursed and her eyes are scrunched up a little like she’s in pain but trying to hide it.

“She, uh, dozed off while we were talking,” Will explains.

“I doubt she’s slept very well, if at all,” Hannibal replies.

Alana shoots Hannibal a look that can be roughly interpreted as “okay, I get it” and buries her hands in her coat pockets.

“I’ll start gathering Holly’s things together,” she says.

Will’s brow furrows, as if he can’t guess what Hannibal has arranged.

“Gathering her things?” he asks.

“With Holly’s consent, she’ll be staying with Hannibal until she’s recovered. She can check out tomorrow.”

_The wendigo and the stag, the ballerina still perched on its back, turn to a forest of bone and feather and ash._


	6. Embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I don't do these too often, but I'd like to say thank you for your encouragement and praise. It's extremely gratifying and it makes me want to write more.
> 
> Secondly, I apologize that chapter this took longer. I was away on a trip that constantly required my focus and attention elsewhere. I wrote where I could and I don't have a beta save for Spellcheck and Grammarcheck. If something seems ridiculous, I take full responsibility, but know that there's a decent reason.
> 
> As always, please enjoy.  
> ~Charlie M

Holly feels terribly small, standing in the opulent foyer of Hannibal’s house. This alone is a pallet of rich, dark colors and tasteful decoration—never mind what the rest of the house must look like.

And yet…it feels sterile, like something she’d see out of an interior design magazine. It has all fixtures of a normal home, but they don’t appear as though they are meant to be used practically.

The entry table is narrow and unblemished and dominated by a fanning centerpiece of feathers and grasses. There are no pictures on the wall, just a dotting of deliberately placed art pieces. Even the coat rack, which already has one hook occupied, seems merely decorative.

Holly’s suddenly uncomfortably aware of the differences between her and Hannibal. The dissimilarities in their lifestyles are blaringly obvious, if they hadn’t been before. She’s afraid to touch anything, it all looks so expensive and breakable—nothing like the furniture she’s had since freshman year of college.

There is a gaping void in her knowledge where Hannibal should be and it’s unnerving in its depth and mystery. She feels misplaced. Suddenly, she wishes she agreed to let Will and Alana accompany them.

“Holly? Would you please step further into the hall?” Hannibal asks.

She startles and inches out of the way as Hannibal swings the door closed and locks it. Too late to turn back now, she thinks. Not that she really wants to, even if Hannibal’s house is way too nice for her.

“Sorry,” she murmurs belatedly.

The belongings she’s brought with her from the hospital and her abandoned apartment are stored away in two suitcases clogging up the entry with her. She nudges them out of the way with her knee as she shuffles to accommodate Hannibal.

“It’s quite alright,” he replies, “Would you like to take your coat off?”

She’s grateful for his prompting, because her mind left her somewhere around the threshold. She mechanically disentangles herself from Will’s jacket and only realizes then that Hannibal hasn’t mentioned it, although he must have noticed.

He assists her when she winces at her injured arm, still recovering from the recent vigorous activities. Will’s coat is hung up with care next to Hannibal’s own and Holly shifts out of the way when she’s meant to, uncertain and shy to impose. She misses the coat immediately, even though the scent of Will has begun to fade.

“I’ll show you to your room,” Hannibal says.

Holly nods, feels both relief and guilt that he takes the larger of the two suitcases, and begins hauling the smaller. Hannibal doesn’t trail it behind him on its wheels, so she doesn’t either, and she takes care not to let it bang along the polished wooden stairs as they ascend.

Hannibal leads her to a door at the very end of the second-floor hallway and turns to offer her a reassuring smile.

“So you don’t forget which one is yours,” he explains.

She glances at the other closed doors along the hall and imagines a different world behind each one. The one to her left opens to a world of ice and snow, a swirling frozen tundra. The one on the right to fire and chaos and rampaging heat storms.

The thought makes her want to open each one to see what lies behind. They might be locked, though, unless Hannibal trusts her to mind her business. Holly has no desire to find out if this is the case lest she be wrong.

“Which is yours?” she asks.

Holly wonders if it’s an appropriate question, if it’s even any of her business. She justifies to herself that there might be an emergency of some sort, although she can’t think of one that would require her to know this piece of information specifically.

“The first on the left,” he replies.

He doesn’t seem to think anything of it, which she is suddenly grateful for. She nods and tries not to flush as she follows him into her new bedroom. This one, like the rest of what she’s seen, has been meticulously designed.

The walls are midnight blue where they aren’t canvased in art; the bedsheets are the same blue, accented gold and green. The cold hardwood floor is interrupted by a plush green carpet that Holly sidesteps, wary of her shoes. The entire space reminds her of the deep sea and she wonders if her imaginings in the hallway weren’t entirely fantasy.

But she likes it. The tension in her spine uncoils, just a little.

“You may unpack while I prepare our lunch,” Hannibal says.

She jumps slightly and takes a step towards him, fenced in by the rug.

It doesn’t feel like she should be left to her own devices in his house yet. They hardly know each other; how could he possibly trust her alone?

“Do you want any help? I could wait to unpack…” she replies.

Hannibal seems to consider the offer for a moment before nodding and smiling at her. She doesn’t realize how much she was hoping he’d say yes until she’s trailing him right back the way they came.

 _He looks handsome when he smiles_ , her mind adds helpfully, almost but not quite an afterthought. _Then again, he’s always pretty handsome, isn’t he?_

Holly wills away the blush creeping up her neck and cheeks again.

“We can have a frank discussion about boundaries while we cook,” he muses.

Translation: house rules.

She’s sort of surprised they haven’t already been enumerated under legal documentation for her to sign.

She doesn’t mind really—it is Hannibal’s house, so it is Hannibal’s rules. If he sings kitschy songs in his underwear in the den every Friday night, and he wants her to ignore it, she’ll acquiesce without hesitation.

The kitchen is a wide, open space, and possibly the room with the most genuine feeling. Every surface is pristinely clean, nearly shining where the appliances are metal or glass. The wood is all one tone, warm and inviting. Afternoon light struggles through double doors covered by blinds.

They don’t start speaking immediately. Hannibal begins pulling ingredients from the fridge and from the pantries, asking her to collect utensils. It’s an opportunity to explore a space they’ll be sharing, so he doesn’t deter Holly from going through all the cabinets and drawers twice in her pursuit.

When she’s collected the proper tools, he tells her to wash the herbs and vegetables. Holly takes to the task quickly and thoroughly, making a small conglomeration of vegetation on a towel down the counter.

“You may slice the vegetables while I prepare the meat and the sauce,” Hannibal says.

He sets down a cutting board beside the vegetables and a wicked, professional chef’s knife. Holly dries her hands thoroughly before taking up the blade, hefting the weight and balance in her palm thoughtfully.

The kitchen flickers for a moment back to the hospital. The warm, bright lights of the kitchen fading to silvery moonlight, blackening blood to ink as it spilled from Brian Williams’s body. The squelch of cold metal nestled into soft, warm flesh, the weight of him over her, the power radiating through her bones like cosmic reverberation.

Hannibal has paused in his smooth, busy movements to observe. Holly blinks, snaps out of it, and meets his eyes briefly, but his expression is inscrutable. She wonders if he expected her to do something drastic.

She swiftly begins cutting into a mushroom, tucking the fingers of her left hand out of the way, and from the corner of her eye, Hannibal returns to his own task. There follows a silence that is both biding and busy, as they each focus on their respective responsibilities.

“Your kitchen is beautiful,” Holly says, “I like the mix of contemporary and classic aesthetics.”

She doesn’t glance up from what she’s doing lest she flush again—which she's sure she is anyway. The compliment is sincere, however, and it’s a decent segue into their “frank” conversation. Hannibal recognizes it and gracefully accepts the invitation.

“You are welcome to the kitchen whenever you’d like, Holly. I prepare most meals at home and you are more than welcome to participate with me,” he says.

Something warm spreads through her at the open offer. It appears that he does not plan for them to exist separately but side by side like awkward roommates—as she’d been subjected to in college.

There is something more…communal in this. More involved. She hesitates to think intimate, but the word whispers through her mind anyway.

“In the preparation or consumption?” Holly asks.

There is a pause; she wonders what he’s debating.

“Both, if you are willing. I would enjoy the company.”

She smiles down at the mushrooms she’s herding into a small glass bowl, movements stiffened by the discomfort in her shoulder.

“There are rooms in the house that are open to the both of us. However, your room is your own space, and I will treat it, and you, with respect. I ask that you return that courtesy,” Hannibal continues.

He did say they would have a frank discussion. She’s a just little shocked he feels he must say so aloud, but then she imagines he’s never really shared a living arrangement like this before. Maybe he’s having his own flashbacks to college, with oblivious roommates and no privacy.

“Of course,” she replies, “Just tell me which spaces are exclusively yours and I’ll keep my distance.”

A bit of lemon juice drips onto her fingers and she wipes them quickly on a nearby towel, ignoring the urge to lick it off, as she would have done cooking for herself. She’s nearly finished with the vegetables and herbs now. With some anticipation, she wonders what Hannibal will have her do next.

“I will, once we’ve finished lunch and you’ve settled in. I’ll give you a tour of the house so that you may familiarize yourself.”

She laughs quietly to herself at that. Growing up in a small, close community like hers, they never gave house tours when they had company—most of the houses were built with similar floor plans. She half feels like she should put on a dress and heels for this experience.

“On occasion I host dinner parties. They are not mandatory for you to attend, but I would encourage you to join me for those as well.”

Her giggles are more audible now and she finally parts from her consideration of the cutting board to regard Hannibal. It’s strange to laugh—she hasn’t done so in what feels like years, even when she was reunited with Stephanie.

“Dinner parties,” she repeats, “Seems like something a socialite would do.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow at her, but the corners of his mouth turn up to soften his incredulity.

“Are you implying I’m not a socialite?” he asks.

Her small smile widens and even though it makes her cheeks ache, it feels good.

“I was simply voicing an observation. You could certainly be a socialite and I wouldn’t know it,” she replies.

Her attempt at playfulness is rewarded with a ready smile, wider this time. She turns, finishes chopping the last of the vegetables and stands back for Hannibal’s inspection. He glances over them quickly and nods with approval and the tightness in her chest relaxes.

“Some may call me a socialite,” he agrees, “Will likely would.”

Holly observes him with open curiosity as he takes the bowls she’s sequestered the vegetables into, per his instructions.

“But you wouldn’t?” she asks.

“I participate in wealthier society when it suits me, but I do not seek it out.”

She hums at this, puzzling it out, and finds herself imagining a reclusive bachelor that’s just fallen into a sizeable inheritance.

Perhaps it’s not far off. Hannibal isn’t married, but she’s not sure if he’s single. He obviously has money, and his phrasing indicates more introverted tendencies.

“If you have any preferences or requests of me to make our living arrangement more agreeable, I would ask that you tell me.”

Holly thinks of the plush, luxurious carpet in her room, the hardwood floor and her tendency to trip and scuff her heels. She thinks of her habit pulling her feet up on the couch and glances down at her boots, well-worn.

“Would you prefer if I kept my shoes on in the house?” she asks.

Hannibal follows her gaze and considers as he begins sautéing the vegetables.

“We may compromise with socks,” he says.

She smiles and nods a little more enthusiastically than necessary. The urge to kick her boots of immediately is stifled only because she is in the kitchen, and that is both rude and unsanitary.

Hannibal approves—he allows her to taste the sauce before moving on to the next aspect of lunch.

“Cooking isn’t just a hobby is it?” she muses, “It’s…more than that. You make full use of your kitchen.”

When he glances at her this time, it’s heavier than usual, something shifting and analyzing behind his gaze. Holly tries not to fidget.

“What makes you say so?” he asks.

She presses her lips together in a line and tries to think of what, exactly, drew her to her conclusion. It’s not as if she’s thinks in terms of those TV shows like Sherlock, where the protagonist substantiates seemingly abstract conclusions with minute details and wells of knowledge. She just…guesses, intuits.

“You said you prepare most meals yourself, which I imagine means that you have a higher standard of food. A simple PB and J wouldn’t do, even for lunch,” she says.

He arches an eyebrow and takes the small saucepan off the burner. She notices, now that he wants “evidence” that it’s a gas stove rather than electric. At some point during culinary class in high school, her instructor mentioned that gas stoves are better.

“I could simply be trying to impress you,” Hannibal suggests.

She shoots him a wry look.

“That doesn’t really seem like your…style. Trying to impress people. Maybe you like to show off, but from what I can tell this requires some level of skill and technique,” she replies.

He nods graciously, expression mostly impassive, but she has a feeling he’s actually rather pleased.

“I’ll meet you at the table,” he says.

His tone is brusque, almost dismissive, and if their conversation had been any less friendly, she would think he’s banishing her.

She's smiling as she sidles into the dining room, to a table that would frankly seems excessive, had he not already told her he hosts dinner parties. It could easily seat sixteen people.

Still, Holly hesitates, unsure where she’s supposed to sit and what their arrangements are supposed to be. Hannibal answers the question by appearing and setting the plates down across from each other at the head of the table. They sit and eat in silence for a while and Holly is so enamored, she forgets to task Hannibal to translate the elaborate foreign description.

Finally, the question that’s haunted her since this morning wrestles itself from her mouth.

“Why…why are you letting me stay here?”

Hannibal hardly even pauses in his own meal, finishing the bite he’s chewing before he speaks.

“You needed someone to stay with. I assumed you would not feel safe staying in the hospital or in your apartment and that you’d be uncomfortable in an FBI safe house.”

Holly wonders if this is what he told Doctor Bloom and decides it doesn’t matter because it’s all true. The only reason she slept at all the night before is because Will stayed with her for a few hours before he left with Hannibal.

She felt enormous relief in the morning when Hannibal and Doctor Bloom explained the new situation.

“Thank you. For all of this. If there’s anything I can do…help with the bills or chores or anything, please tell me,” she says.

Her voice has gone soft and quiet, vulnerable. Hannibal regards her gently from across the table and extends his arm slowly, as if she’s a startled animal. He rests his hand over hers, warm and large, and she feels her eyes sting with unshed tears.

“You’re quite welcome. There is no need to repay me, but I will accept your assistance in keeping the house clean,” he replies.

Holly smiles at him, a tender, beautiful thing and they finish their meal.

◊◊◊

By the end of the first week, they fall into a tentative routine.

Hannibal wakes up long before her, has breakfast and coffee prepared by the time she manages to stumble downstairs, drowsy and rumpled. They spend most of these meals in silence as she sips at her mug and the caffeine does its work.

They go to their respective tasks.

Hannibal secludes himself to his office and his appointments, emerging only for lunch or cancellations. Holly fashions a workspace in a room that can honestly be referred to as a parlor. She stations her laptop at a large desk by a window and tries not to be distracted by the beautiful landscape of the backyard.

When Hannibal’s last appointment leaves, Holly joins him in the kitchen to prepare dinner, they eat, and then they retire to the library or the den for the evening. Holly is in love with most of Hannibal’s house, including his study/library, and begins methodically reading through his shelves with permission.

Most nights find her curled up in front of a fire, either in a chair or on the floor, reading alongside Hannibal.

Holly has physical therapy every other day at two o’clock, and each Thursday leads directly into her sessions with Doctor Bloom. Hannibal carves out time to drive her to every appointment without complaint, and brightens the sour mood caused by her sore, convalescing shoulder.

Sharing the house is less frustrating for the both of them than either anticipates. There are compromises, of course—laundry, and remembering to dress properly before joining the other in common rooms. However, Holly is a polite and almost reserved housemate in her endearing awkwardness attempting to gauge the extent of Hannibal’s formality.

Hannibal, too, finds his own routines disrupted by the new living situation. He reminds himself to make enough food for two, and to knock on bathroom doors before entering. Mostly, he must mind that Holly keeps odd hours, usually from nightmares, and could very well cross his more nocturnal activities prematurely if he’s not cautious.

Hiccups and compromises aside, they organize comfortable, easy schedules around each other.

And, of course, Hannibal does nothing to dissuade Holly from checking in with him before leaving the house. It’s a habit she initiates on her own, asking if he wants anything while she’s out, but which he takes every opportunity to encourage. Partly good manners on her part, but also just this side of fostering codependency on his.

Will manages to visit at the end of the second week. Jack Crawford has had him away on another case and then he had some repairs to do on his house. Coming home to the dogs and to Hannibal fills cold hollows in his chest that he ignores while he’s away.

He’s grown accustomed to how he misses both on his trips, the returned ache of loneliness he lived with for so long before he molded a place for himself in the world.

He didn’t anticipate that he’d miss Holly too this time.

Will finds his fingers tapping impatient rhythms on his steering wheel as he shortens the hour-long drive to forty minutes. Hannibal hardly ever needs to invite him over anymore—in fact, they each have keys to the other’s house—but with Holly’s presence, Will didn’t want to disturb whatever they’re beginning to build.

Hannibal assured him that his presence would be welcome, however. Holly even managed to ask how Will was doing the other day, which is the reason he’s joining them for dinner tonight. He’s eager to see how Holly has integrated herself into Hannibal’s life.

He wonders, with a wry smile, if they’re already starting to drive each other crazy.

Hannibal swings the door open when Will knocks. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, but smiles with genuine pleasure when their eyes meet. Will barely steps past the threshold when Hannibal’s mouth slants over his, their tongues dancing, teeth nipping.

Will just manages to nudge the door closed with his foot, and Hannibal crowds him against the wood immediately. His clever fingers tangle in Will’s already disheveled curls, his thigh tucks snugly between Will’s. A low sound catches in Will’s throat, muffled by another deep kiss.

The shadows of loneliness are chased away by the taste of Hannibal on his tongue; the hollow spaces filled with the heat of Hannibal’s body flush against his.

A small eternity later, they separate for air, and the vague recollection that they’re not the sole occupants of the house anymore. It’s too soon for Holly to know the truth of the arrangement—their machinations are only just beginning.

Hannibal sweeps his thumb over Will’s cheek fondly, and Will finds himself leaning into the affectionate gesture.

“Shall I take your coat?”

Will stifles a laugh and nods. Hannibal finally peels himself away and Will obediently turns to shrug out of his jacket. He takes the opportunity to look around, to see if Holly’s made any significant changes yet, if her presence is obvious.

Apart from the coat she’s unwittingly stolen hung on one of the hooks, the house is exactly as it has always been. Will is both amused and vaguely disappointed she hasn’t turned Hannibal’s life completely upside down.

“Where is she?” he asks.

“In the kitchen, baking cookies I believe,” Hannibal replies.

Will’s eyebrows arch before he can suppress his surprise, glancing at Hannibal dubiously. He merely offers Will an innocently questioning expression. If Will didn’t know him so well, and all his micro-expressions, he could almost believe it.

As it is, an innocent Hannibal is about as appropriate as a vegetarian shark.

“You left someone alone in your kitchen?” he asks, “You left someone else _in charge_ in your kitchen?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Hannibal replies.

“For you? Yes.”

Hannibal smiles and anchors his hands in the pockets of his trousers as they begin ambling towards the dining room. The closer they get, the more distinct Frank Sinatra’s voice sings unobtrusively in the background.

“I told her you were coming for dinner and she asked if she could make cookies. She was so excited, I found I couldn’t say no,” Hannibal explains.

Will’s grin turns impish as he regards Hannibal as if in shock.

In all honesty, he’s not surprised. Holly has a natural charm about her that’s magnetic—especially, apparently, to them. If she turned her big gray eyes on him and asked for his social security and all his personal information, he probably wouldn’t say no.

“She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she? I’m jealous,” he teases.

Hannibal snorts softly and casts an amused glance towards the kitchen doorway. They’re speaking low enough that Holly can’t hear them, but it never hurts to keep an eye out for her. She has a naturally light step, and her socks muffle what little noise she does make.

“I do find myself making concessions for her that I would usually only make for you. She is…”

“More?”

Hannibal inclines his head graciously, that small smile still curling the corners of his mouth up. Will smirks and follows Hannibal’s eyes. Now, quiet humming can be heard along with Sinatra, light as a songbird and beautifully harmonized.

“How is she doing?” Will asks.

“Better now, I think,” Hannibal answers, “she’s in a good mood today, if you can’t tell. The nightmares come and go.”

Will sidles into the doorway, unnoticed. She’s standing at the island, mixing something in a stainless steel bowl. Her hair is twisted up and pinned back, but glossy beneath the kitchen lights. A gauzy white dress, patterned in watercolor roses that look like bloodstains, drapes to just above her knees.

_The three have barely entered the forest. The blood lake is still visible behind them, but remains distant and serene. The trees here are sparse but tall and bleached-white bone, jagged lines of texture carved into their surfaces. Their branches twist and curve above, like the stag’s tines._

_The ballerina extends an arm to touch the smooth, cool surface of a tree, but the stag steps where she can’t reach, and she doesn’t persist._

_The wendigo offers a hand. The ballerina considers._

_Black smudges overlap the dried smears of blood when she accepts. She slips gracefully from the stag’s back, but her footing is unsteady, and she leans against its flank._

_The ground is a thick bed of ash and feather, a speckled mosaic of gray and black. Her eyelids flutter again. The wendigo eases her down, where she curls on her side, the only splash of color in a monochrome wood._

_The wendigo and the stag lower themselves next to her as sentinels._

Holly looks better than she did, certainly. Her skin has returned to a healthier shade, and though the dark circles beneath her eyes remain, they’re more light smudges than deep bruises now.

“Hannibal?” she calls.

She glances up and jumps when she sees them in the doorway. Not frightened, just startled. Her eyes sparkle with delight. Will steps further into the kitchen to make room for Hannibal to get by.

“I didn’t see you two there,” she says.

Her voice is chastising but playfully so, and Will marvels at what a couple weeks difference has made for her, feeling safe and comfortable with Hannibal. Her smile comes a little easier, a little wider, than those rare times they could coax it from her before.

“My apologies, I meant to inform you of our presence,” Hannibal says, “What did you need?”

“Cookie sheets, please.”

Hannibal offers to retrieve them for her, allowing Holly the opportunity to properly greet Will. Her smile doesn’t change as she ventures from the island counter. If anything it becomes brighter.

“It’s good to see you again, Will,” she says.

There’s a hiccup in the sentence, like she was going to say something else but censored herself. Will wonders if the light flush staining her cheeks would darken if he said “I missed you too”.

It’s on the tip of his tongue, but then she hugs him and he barely manages to choke out a hello. Her hair smells of shampoo and the rest of her smells overwhelmingly of cookie dough and Will’s mouth waters. His arms circle her shoulders, minding the healing one, and hold her close.

“You made cookies?” he asks.

Holly pulls away and beams at him again and it nearly knocks the wind out of him. He’s known she has a lovely smile—he saw as much from the pictures in the hallway in her home. He just hasn’t prepared himself for the experience of it turned on him.

He thinks of sunlight shining over fish scales in the river. The dogs turning his property to mud when he lets them play in the water in the summer when he should be bathing them.

“Correction,” she says, “I’m _making_ cookies. Your timing is perfect—you can choose what kind you want. Chocolate chip, peanut butter, or oatmeal raisin?”

Will blinks down at her.

He occasionally likes sweets—Hannibal has spoiled most simple treats for him though, like Oreos or Chips Ahoy. But Holly’s cookies are clearly homemade and she looks so excited he’s not about to say no.

He doesn’t need empathy to know how Hannibal must have felt when she asked to make them earlier now.

“Is peanut butter chocolate chip not an option?” he asks.

She giggles, a bright, clear sound that cuts through Frank Sinatra’s lovesick warbling like a sharp blade.

“Peanut butter chocolate chip sounds excellent,” she agrees, “What do you think, Hannibal?”

His answer is prompt with thinly veiled amusement as he sets two cookie sheets on the counter.

“It sounds delicious.”

Holly leaves Will’s orbit to collect the necessary ingredients from the pantry. Will watches her go feeling vaguely dazed. She searches the shelves for a moment before glancing up, far past where she can reach, and frowns.

“Hannibal,” she groans, “why must you put things where I can’t reach them?”

Will chuckles as Hannibal eases past her to retrieve the jar of peanut butter and the bag of chocolate chips. Her behavior would border on rude except he notices her murmur “thank you” under her breath.

“I only keep out of your reach those ingredients you tend to eat,” Hannibal replies, “The chocolate chips didn’t halve themselves, after all.”

He places them in her hands with a smile that Will recognizes as smug. Holly must be able to tell the difference now too, because she huffs indignantly as she returns to her station.

“False allegations,” she declares, “You have no proof.”

Will smiles and drifts closer while she measures out a healthy dose of peanut butter and scrapes it into the bowl. The chocolate chips she’s less precise with. She dumps practically the other half of the bag, before humming in approval and offering spare to Will with a mischievous grin.

They each manage to pilfer a few before Hannibal swoops in and confiscates the chocolate again and they both try not to laugh too hard at his disapproving look.

Holly mixes in the new ingredients, lets Will help when her arm tires. The three of them chat idly as they begin scooping globs of dough onto the sheets. Not about work—Holly blessedly doesn’t ask—but about baking and other false allegations and Frank Sinatra.

When the cookies go in the oven, they migrate into the office that doubles as Hannibal’s library. Holly immediately takes up a book on an end table and climbs up to the second story to replace it, mindful of her dress.

Will observes how relaxed she’s become, her fingertips trailing lightly over spines. He wonders how many she’s read already, if she’s ambitious enough to try to read them all—or at least the ones she can. Medical journals tend to be dry and Hannibal keeps patient records up there as well.

“I have invited Doctor Bloom to join us this evening,” Hannibal says.

It’s said nonchalantly, something mentioned in passing really, but Holly’s hand pauses like he just delivered devastating news. She pivots from the books and folds her arms on the banister, regarding him. Will watches how her eyes flicker in stifled frustration, displeased but not quite comfortable enough to voice it just yet.

“You didn’t say so earlier when you said Will was coming,” she replies, “Isn’t that a little rude?”

Hannibal appears unflappable but Will knows that he didn’t expect Holly to call him on it, and he’s _pleased_. He’s goading her out, ushering her out of her shell, even if means an apparent lapse in manners.

“I knew that you would be anxious if I told you sooner. I assumed telling you about Will was enough,” Hannibal replies.

He looks composed and in control even looking up at her, his hands resting casually in his pockets. Will knows better than anyone that Hannibal acting like this can incite violent rage. Holly herself looks like she’s biting back the urge to snap at him and Will mentally applauds her restraint.

“With good reason,” she argues, “I’m not keen on eating dinner with my psychiatrist. I know she’s your friend, but she’s in my mind once a week already. Isn’t that enough?”

Hannibal cocks his head.

“Do you feel as if you have something to hide, Holly?” he asks.

Her eyes flicker away, she shifts and swallows but doesn’t allow the pause before her answer to draw out too long.

“Doesn’t everyone?” she says.

Will intercedes to smooth things over, to keep dinner from becoming too tense. The last thing he wants is to spoil her mood when he hasn’t seen her in two weeks.

“You don’t like Doctor Bloom, Holly?” he asks.

Holly sighs, expression softening. Hannibal may have drawn her ire, but Will has not, and she doesn’t displace her feelings.

“That’s not it,” she sighs.

“Holly believes that Doctor Bloom keeps the wrong company,” Hannibal says.

The amusement is clear in his tone and while Holly thinks it’s directed at her, Will knows it’s directed at the truth of the statement. Alana Bloom considers both Will and Hannibal her friends, and she is correct, to an extent. That doesn’t mean she would continue to do so if she knew the truth.

“That’s not what I said,” Holly replies.

“Then tell us,” Hannibal asks.

She sighs and shifts self-consciously, but all three of them already know she’s going to acquiesce.

“She’s like…a lamb that doesn’t recognize the wolves in the flock.”

Will parts his lips with his tongue, considering the metaphor—not inaccurate. Alana has spent a lot of time with Will and Hannibal, under the impression that they are more or less as harmless as they appear.

Of course, they’ve worked to keep her under that guise, but so would the wolf to the sheep, if it could.

_The blood has dried on the ballerina, beginning to crack and flake, revealing patches of pristine skin beneath. Patient, biding, the wendigo and the stag remain close._

“You imagine me and Hannibal as wolves,” Will says.

She offers him an apologetic look.

“It’s not meant in a negative connotation,” she replies.

Hannibal rewards her honesty by giving her a brief reprieve. He crosses to the ladder and gestures her closer.

“Come down from there,” he calls, “Don’t be upset.”

And how can she resist, when even Will, who knows most of Hannibal’s methods to coax and influence, would surrender to that tone. She’s wary, as if she doesn’t trust the olive branch—and she likely shouldn’t—but she complies, accepting his proffered hand when she reaches the bottom.

“What do you see yourself as? One of the sheep, or one of the wolves?” he asks.

Her teeth sink into the soft, pink flesh of her bottom lip. The anger has faded—or at least she’s subsided it into a little box where she can handle it later, in privacy. Her eyes now are wide and gentle as always.

“I don’t know,” she admits, “maybe some sort of wild dog that happens upon the sheep and wolves.”

The timer in the kitchen keens, signaling that Holly’s cookies are done. She politely slips away, leaving Hannibal and Will to consider their plans with growing anticipation.


	7. Masquerade

“Doctor Bloom believes you don’t socialize enough.”

Holly glances at Hannibal through thick lashes, fork halfway to her mouth. He should know better than to bring this up at breakfast. She’s barely functional before her first cup of coffee, and it’s only around the second that she’ll entertain discussions of her therapy.

His breach of their unspoken agreement is frankly rather offensive; the soft, forceful burst of her exhalation informs him of such.

“I happen to agree with her.”

The wounded expression she sends him is not missed, although he feigns it is. Hannibal will admit that her muffled indignation is an amusing aspect of Holly’s personality (though perhaps not her most amusing). In fact, the only reason he began this one-sided conversation with the mention of Alana Bloom is to read her facial features without the temperance she dons when she’s more awake.

“I can count on one hand the number of times in a month you leave the house to socialize.”

Her eyes drop to her plate as she finishes the bite in her mouth. She swallows carefully, draws out the moment to sip tentatively from her coffee. He notices her pause to savor the flavor, and feels gratified at the memory of her complaining about Starbucks just the other day.

“I socialize with you, don’t I?” she says, “And I’ve only been here for a couple months.”

Hannibal allows himself a small smile at her sly tone, the way her eyes narrow over the rim of her mug. In two months she’s become bolder, but no less polite—except, perhaps, in the morning, when she forgoes proper greetings for a sleepy hum of acknowledgement. He can allow her those, of course. Will is no more a morning person than she is.

“A single person does not a social life make,” he replies.

Her shoulders slump minutely. He thinks she might not have slept well again. Already the fight has left her, when usually she would dance around her arguments a bit more. A bit of verbal fencing can be a pleasant way to start one’s day.

“It’s strange with my friends. They never know what to say to me, even when I try to lead a conversation,” she admits.

Hannibal tilts his head sympathetically.

“Even Stephanie?” he asks.

Her lips tilt slightly and she shakes her head.

“Stephanie is the exception,” she replies, “but she has a life of her own.”

Hannibal nods and watches Holly nudge at her remaining omelet dejectedly.

“Socializing does not necessarily have to be with people you know. It includes the formation of new friendships as well.”

Holly casts him an incredulous glance again, abandoning her food altogether to nurse her cup. He can see her trying to banish the cobwebs of fatigue to puzzle out his machinations. She’s much more observant than he anticipated and even under-caffeinated she recognizes there’s a greater purpose to this conversation.

“Somehow I doubt I’m going to be invited to an ice cream social anytime soon,” she says, “and I’d rather just be considered the stereotypical moody, reclusive artist.”

Hannibal smiles enigmatically but returns to his meal just as she notices. He knows she’s lying. The antisocial tendencies are more Will’s domain, even though Holly is an introvert.

He times his next words between her sips of coffee. It would be a shame for her to choke on such a nice brew or spill it all over himself. His news will be better taken if she’s not scalded.

“Nonsense. An opportunity to remove yourself from the house and from your own mind will do you good. That is why we will be attending the ballet this Saturday.”

That brings her short. When Hannibal glances up, she’s blinking at him owlishly and he can practically see her brain twisting to process his words.

“We are?” she asks.

He smiles more noticeably now as he returns to his meal as if this is business as usual. He keeps a careful eye on her expressions and reactions, though, drinking in the ebb and flow of her thoughts.

“Yes,” he replies.

“But Saturday is in two days and I don’t have a dress,” she argues, “or accessories.”

He waves away her concerns with a slight motion of his fork.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of making an appointment with a boutique later today.”

Holly doesn’t have work today. She’s caught up with most of her projects or in the beginning stages of others—stages that require conferences with her coworkers and confirmations from her superiors.

He asked as much the night before and she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. She pales as she realizes the ulterior motive behind his harmless questions and carefully sets her mug on the table, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I don’t think I can afford—”

“I will be accompanying you, of course, and paying any expenses.”

He’s stunned her into complete silence, it seems. She stares at him across the table and tries to speak. A few aborted syllables escape before she simply closes her mouth while she forms a proper sentence.

“But you can’t just…”

“Do you not like ballet?” he asks.

Already, he can see her arguments crumbling before they can form. She gives him an impatient look as she scrambles to reply.

“I do, but—”

“Then allow me to treat you to this.”

She finally manages to get more than a few words out, voice pitched a little higher than usual.

“Hannibal, it’s _expensive_ and you’re already letting me stay in your house...”

“I have offered you both of these out of friendship and kindness. I enjoy your company—the money involved in having it is of no consequence.”

He watches the blush climb up her throat and dusting her cheeks and nose despite her efforts to control it. All further arguments seem to die on her tongue; her teeth press defiantly into her lip, fighting acquiescence. A quiet sigh signals her accepted defeat.

“Thank you. I’d be happy to join you.”

Hannibal smiles and rewards her with another cup of coffee, exactly how she likes it. She tries to hide her own smile in the steam, but he’s pleased to note it anyway.

◊◊◊

Hannibal’s scheduled the appointment so that they can have lunch immediately after her fitting. As soon as he says that word exactly—“fitting”—Holly predicts the nature of the boutique they’re going to and attempts to dress accordingly. When they enter, she’s glad she had the forethought.

The boutique has an actual waiting room—a whole corner of couches with a small table of bridal and fashion magazines. To the left is a doorway to a pocket of clothing racks, undoubtedly hand-designed and manufactured. The right is a wall, interrupted only by a closed door labelled _Marchandises_.

The entire room is French in design, a soft pastel pallet of gold and white and pink and cream. It calls to mind images of champagne in elegant flutes and strings of pearl necklaces around dainty necks. Even dressed nicely, she feels misplaced in her darker earth and deep jewel tones.

Holly nearly stops in the doorway and turns right back around, but Hannibal’s fingers gently press into the small of her back, propelling her forward. They approach a young, willowy woman—Josette, the nameplate on her desk says—sitting behind a neatly organized French desk.

Her hair is restrained in a neat bun, portions of the front braided back, and she has the confidence not to fuss at it as Holly would. Her dress is trendy and sophisticated, complimenting her slight figure with ruffles and interesting patterns.

Josette smiles politely; affords Holly a brief once over before turning the full force of her delicate facial features on Hannibal.

“We have an appointment,” he says, “for Hannibal Lecter.”

She clicks across her laptop screen a couple times before looking back at them cheerfully. Her voice is crisp and light, with the slightest accent.

“Right on time, sir. Madame will be with you in just a moment. Is there anything I can get you?”

Holly is equal parts uncomfortable and amused. Josette seems barely out of high school, but Hannibal is also incredibly attractive, and clearly well off. She wonders if—had they met under different circumstances—she would have acted similarly. She likes to think she wouldn’t.

“I’m quite alright for now,” Hannibal replies, “Holly?”

She shakes her head even though her mouth has gone a little dry. The offer wasn’t meant for her. Josette tells them to wait by the couches and Holly walks with Hannibal to the waiting area.

There are only two other people occupying the plush couches. A middle-aged woman in a frightening pink halter-top sits rigidly flipping through a bridal magazine. A younger girl, unmistakably her daughter, slouches next to her on her phone. They’re both blond and blue-eyed and pristine.

Holly sits on the farthest end from the other two and leans her elbow against the arm of the couch. Hannibal, amused, occupies the seat next to her.

“Perhaps you should have ordered a glass of wine,” he says, “you seem anxious.”

She slides him a sideways look and doesn’t bother with surprise that a clothing store would offer alcohol. Instead, she tries not to play with her hair, half-braided back because she spent more time on her clothes and makeup today. Her stomach twists in a knot, but she wills it away and tries to respond in a normal tone of voice.

“Not on an empty stomach,” she replies, “and I’m not anxious.”

She is, but he doesn’t correct her.

It’s hard to even pinpoint why. Perhaps it’s because the room is so bright and ethereal and the world Holly has been living in lately has been the polar opposite—in the literal and figurative sense.

Hannibal’s house is all rich, cool colors and decoration that some might deem morbid—bones featured in flowers arrangements and tragic paintings, centerpieces of feathers rather than fauna. Despite the initial shock of the understated opulence of his home, Holly’s acclimated to it quickly and she _likes_ it.

Perhaps she’s begun to appreciate it so much because the atmosphere matches her thoughts. Her artwork has taken on a darker tone of late—one of blood and forests of feather and bone. If Doctor Bloom got her hands on Holly’s sketchbook, she’s sure they would have therapy fodder for months.

The tailor comes for them first and saves her from further discussion. Holly’s not surprised by this either. Hannibal obviously has money to spare and from the warm reception, he’s also friends with the head seamstress. She tries to ignore the matching glares of the blonds as they’re led to private fitting rooms.

The seamstress—Claudine—is in her late forties, early fifties, with an understated beauty and industrious air that sets Holly at ease. Her hair is the color of brass, pinned back in a severe French plait. Her eyes are a sharp, keen blue, like twin cracks of lightening when she considers Holly.

Past initial introductions, and the occasional instruction, Claudine speaks solely in French. Holly took three years in high school, but doesn’t remember enough to keep up with how quickly it’s being spoken. Hannibal doesn’t seem to struggle at all—he speaks fluently with Claudine as Holly is measured from head to toe.

After a moment, Claudine disappears around a corner, into what looks like a workshop, and Holly sends Hannibal a questioning look.

“I guessed your measurements and asked Claudine to make you a dress about three weeks ago. This is more an alterations appointment than a fitting,” he explains.

She narrows her eyes at him and opens her mouth, fully intent on giving him an earful this time. Then Claudine sweeps in with a gown hanging beneath an opaque bag and Holly holds her tongue to avoid making a scene.

Hannibal leaves the room and Holly strips to slide into a dress that already seems to fit her perfectly. Claudine guides her up onto the little platform and clicks her tongue, gathering and dropping the dress, squinting at the lines and tapping her cheek.

Finally, she nods to herself and frees Holly, explaining how she’s to get in and out of the dress when the time comes. The garment is hung up and Holly climbs into her casual clothes again, feeling a little breathless. Hannibal is admitted to the room just as she’s lacing up her boots.

“It went well?” he asks.

Holly ignores the urge to stick her tongue out at him and nods. Claudine reappears and tells him the alterations will only take a couple hours before dismissing them with good-natured flare. Hannibal guides Holly from the room, through the waiting room, and out the door.

She takes in a deep breath, as if she hasn’t breathed since they entered _Après Minuit._ They drive to the restaurant without detour, and Holly’s unexpectedly relieved that it’s a small, comfortable looking café rather than a proper restaurant.

“Was it really so terrible?” Hannibal asks.

She swallows the immediate, childish urge to insist _yes_. Instead, she shakes her head honestly, eyes on her menu. The dress is lovely, Claudine was charming, Hannibal was doting and companionable. Holly’s ire is only for show and they both know it.

“It’s just a bit of a shock, is all,” she admits, “I don’t feel like I belong.”

The unspoken _anywhere_ claims a seat at the table with them.

From her peripheral, Holly sees him tip his head in that way he does when he’s curious.

“Not even with me? Or with Will?” he asks.

Her eyes flit to his of their own volition, just for a moment, before she returns to fruitlessly searching the gibberish on her menu. It might as well be in Russian for all she can read it. A blush is painting itself across her cheeks, but by now she knows she’s helpless to stop it.

“Except with you two,” she replies, “then I feel…right.”

Not normal. Nothing with Hannibal ever feels normal. Not his meals, not his house, not him or his probing questions that she can’t help but answer honestly.

Hannibal, thankfully, doesn’t ask her to explain further.

◊◊◊

Holly stares at the mirror and tries to remind herself that the stranger she sees is, in fact, herself.

The dress is a shimmering artwork of fabric, dripping exquisitely down the lines of her body. Like she was born in it. Gold embroidery and beading scroll elegantly down the stiff black bodice, tapering off just below her ribs. The skirt falls sleek and weighty from there, draping liquid gold over the swell of her hips, clinging to her thighs and calves.

She feels radiant. For the first time in months, the sensation of being not-quite human tastes of divinity rather than condemnation. Holly’s eyes sting and she looks away, because she’s spent far too much time on her makeup to ruin it with tears now.

She’s just strapping herself into the black heels when there’s a polite tap at the door. Her heart leaps in her throat, suddenly pounding out a rhythm that does not compliment the relaxing piano melodies emitting from her phone.

“Come in,” she says.

The door swings open so slowly, Holly wonders if Hannibal is purposefully drawing out the anticipation. Knowing him, he likely is, and she’d chastise him if she had any air left in her lungs. Her stomach flutters as she finally sees him.

The full tuxedo shouldn’t be so striking, she thinks vaguely. After all, he wears an impeccable suit nearly every day. In fact, she can count on one hands the number of times she’s seen him outside of a button-up, at the very least. Even so, he looks refined in simple black and white formalwear. The word _classic_ springs to mind organically.

“You look stunning,” he says, “like Venus born from the seafoam.”

Holly flushes vividly at the compliment and hastily stands, catching her balance on the bed post.

“Thank you,” she replies.

It’s barely a sentence, nearly inaudible. She wishes she could hide her burning face.

“You look handsome,” she adds.

He smiles at her fumbling and accepts her compliment with a grace she envies at the moment. Careful not to scuff the floor, she strides to the dresser and takes up her clutch as a temporary escape. She focuses wholeheartedly on dropping scant essentials inside as if it’s the most important decision she’ll make tonight.

She’s so intent on not looking at Hannibal that the warm, gentle hand on her bare shoulder startles her. At this point, she should be accustomed to how quietly he moves, even with his shoes on the hardwood floor. His other hand rests lightly on her ribcage, where he can surely feel the fluttering of her heart.

“Why didn’t you ask me to help you into the dress?” Hannibal asks.

Holly knows she freezes, and she knows it gives her away. A startled deer caught in the intense beam of Hannibal’s gaze, whether she’s looking at him or not. She knows he’s watching her, every little twitch and shift.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were getting ready,” she replies.

It’s partially true, but it’s not the main reason she didn’t go to him. The idea of knocking at his door with her dress undone, all it would take a simple slip and gravity would make the dress pool at her feet, was too tempting.

 _No, Holly, not tempting_ , she tries to tell herself, _too_ risky.

She’s only got her underwear and the shoes beneath her dress. The back is open, the bodice structured to support her breasts. A simple mishap, a simple action, would have been all it took to leave herself naked in front of Hannibal.

Not that she’s unaccustomed to the sensation His gaze always leaves her feeling stripped bare in the most pleasant way.

“Nonsense. It would have taken only a moment that I would have gladly spared for you,” he says.

She closes her eyes and tries not to spontaneously combust. Hannibal’s hand drifts from her shoulder to the back of the dress and for a heart-stopping moment, she thinks he’s going to unzip it entirely. And in that moment, she knows she’d let him.

Which becomes terrifying when he’s tugging it the last two inches up and she feels a pang of disappointment. Disappointment is then followed by guilt because of course her mind conjures the image of a certain FBI special agent, to haunt her as it always does at inopportune times. If possible, the burn of her flush increases.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“You’re quite welcome,” Hannibal replies, “now, come. We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Holly isn’t quite sure how she manages to force herself to turn around, but she does. She tries to disguise her embarrassment by pretending to pout that he’s still taller than her, even in her heels. If he knows—and he surely does—he has the good grace not to mention it.

She accepts his arm when it’s offered—which proves to be her greatest asset navigating down the stairs. When she leans into him slightly, wary of slipping, she catches the light, intoxicating scent of his cologne and her stomach tightens.

The brand, the name, what it’s supposed to smell of exactly, she’s not sure. Holly just likes it. _Really_ likes it.

They make it to the bottom of the stairs without injury. Hannibal opens the car door for her and she smiles with a touch less embarrassment as she slips past him with a polite “thank you”.

It’s only when he’s closed his door, and she’s once more teased with the fragrance of his cologne, that she realizes this is going to be a very long and excruciating night.

 

The ballet is absolute perfection and Holly adores every moment. Hannibal has secured them perfect viewing seats, and she watches the dancers pirouette and grand jete across the stage with unfettered delight. It’s everything she expected and more, and she forgets all about her previous reservations concerning Hannibal’s money.

At intermission, he assists Holly from her seat with her hand clasped gently in his, tucking it into his elbow as they walk to the main venue floor. He takes two flutes of champagne from a passing server and when he turns to offer hers, she accepts.

Her hand automatically returns to his elbow as she shifts to his side again. As if they’ve done this a thousand times and it’s merely muscle memory.

“You know, this is the exact image I had of you when we first met,” she says.

His eyes shift from the crowd to her, curiously amused, if the tilt of his lips is anything to go by.

“At a ballet with you on my arm?” he asks, “Are you prophetic now, Holly?”

She grins widely at his teasing and feels some of the nervous tension between her shoulder-blades unknot. Her eyes roll towards the ceiling and she spares a thought to hope he doesn’t consider it rude. They’re only joking at the moment; that’s not a lapse in manners, right?

“No,” she replies, “I mean the tuxedo and the champagne and the venue.”

“You pictured me in a setting such as this from the moment we met?”

She nods and sips at the champagne, enjoying the fizzle of popping bubbles across her tongue and down her throat. It doesn’t taste at all like the cheap stuff Stephanie sprayed her with at their college graduation party.

Holly is once again reminded of the differences between her world and Hannibal’s, even though the two seem to be on a convergence course impossible to redirect. Not that she wants them to.

“Your general impression invokes images of expensive drinks and fine art,” she says.

It’s the same thought she had when she saw him standing next to Will. She’d never thought she’d say as much to him—most of her thoughts remain private, only slipping to the material world through her art. Hannibal doesn’t seem offended though.

“I’m afraid I can’t deny that you were correct,” he replies.

He doesn’t make her socialize with any strangers during the intermission. Their conversation stays between them, discussing different facets of the performance.

They don’t finish their glasses of champagne, and Holly feels a brief pang of guilt for drinking only half when the cost of a single glass would probably make her pale. Hannibal ushers her along though, assuring her that it’s quite alright and that she should just enjoy the second half of the ballet.

She does. The ending is so dramatic and well-choreographed, she’s practically on the edge of her seat. The prima ballerina wilts in a pantomime of death and the curtain slowly descends, the last few notes shivering in the air.

The dancers receive a standing ovation that Holly and Hannibal willingly participate in. As they begin filing out, she turns to Hannibal and nearly attacks him in a hug. She’s only restrained by the reminder of the company they’re in, but the intent is there when she settles for squeezing his arm instead.

“That was fantastic,” she says, “The ending was incredible.”

Hannibal smiles at her more openly than he usually does. Her appreciation for the performance is appreciated in return.

“Was it your favorite part?” he asks.

She shakes her head, expression distant, almost dreamy. He wonders, briefly, if she’d wear that same expression waking up in bed, pressed between him and Will, with golden morning sunlight painting her body in shadows not even the old masters could imitate.

“I don’t have a favorite part. It was all phenomenal,” she replies.

“Hannibal!”

The whimsical trance is broken, like a switch flipping the difference between light and dark. Hannibal isn’t irritated—he brought Holly here to socialize, after all, and he’ll have plenty of time to see that expression on her in a more private setting soon.

They both turn, and Holly takes in the newcomer curiously. She’s an older woman with a dark head of hair cut into a stylish, artsy bob. Her dress is like a slash of blood among the other patrons as she glides across the room to greet them, an almost coy expression on her face.

Holly tenses, unprepared for unfamiliar conversation after two hours enveloped in nothing but darkness and orchestra. Hannibal arm shifts to the small of her back, comforting and warm through the thick material of her dress.

“Mrs. Komeda, a pleasure to see you as always,” he says.

He takes her hand, placing a polite kiss to her knuckles before shaking Mr. Komeda’s hand firmly. Inevitably, Mrs. Komeda’s sharp eyes shift from Hannibal to Holly, still nestled into his side. The bright pink scar left by her father has been made faint with the artful use of makeup, but it still feels bright and obvious.

Holly calls on that deep part of herself that she uses for outlandish display proposals and business partners at parties. The smile she conjures is polished and polite, tinged sweet for the social occasion and because this is obviously one of Hannibal’s friends.

“And who is this lovely young thing?” Mrs. Komeda asks.

Hannibal conducts the introductions with easy grace.

“This is my date this evening, Holly. Holly, this is Mr. and Mrs. Komeda, friends who enjoy the opera as much as I do,” he says.

Holly forces herself to keep her eyes on the Komedas as they each shake hands. She doesn’t let herself dwell on the words “my date” or the way Hannibal’s accent wraps around her name like a warm caress. She doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief when he casually omits her last name.

“I doubt anyone enjoys the opera as much as Hannibal does,” Mrs. Komeda says.

Holly finds her smile becoming a touch more genuine at the foregone traditional greeting of “nice to meet you”. Her words come out friendly as she replies.

“I believe you, but I hope to match him at ballet.”

Mrs. Komeda looks nearly charmed. She smiles, her eyes flashing with amusement, and rests a dainty hand on her jutting hip.

“I take it you enjoyed yourself then?” she asks.

“Very much so. And you?” Holly replies.

“Oh, not as much as the opera, I think, but it was showing for one night only—I just had to see it. It did not disappoint.”

Holly can’t help her head from snapping to Hannibal so fast she nearly has whiplash. She knew beforehand that this whole venture couldn’t be cheap from the beginning. A custom dress. Perfect viewing seats.

Tickets to a professional ballet showing for _one night only_.

The list makes her head spin and it’s only Hannibal’s hand on her waist that holds her steady.

“My feelings exactly. The prima ballerina left something to be desired though, I’m afraid,” Hannibal says.

Holly blinks in new surprise, brought back to the present moment. She can fall apart over the amount he’s spent on her later. For now she needs to function like a normal human being to avoid alienating herself or Hannibal.

“What do you mean? Her stage presence was spectacular and her technique was flawless,” she replies.

Mrs. Komeda titters in delight, waving a hand dismissively when two pair of eyes turn to her curiously.

“My, you’re a feisty little thing, aren’t you?” she says, “I think you may have met your match, Hannibal.”

Holly tries not to blush too profusely as Hannibal smiles. It’s a restrained thing, as heavily polished and refined for public viewing as Holly’s. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t understand it, but she sees the true thing lurking beneath.

“Holly is indeed a force to be reckoned with,” he agrees.

She smiles brightly at the praise but the little twist in her stomach wishes they would find a new subject. They just watched a spectacular performance, couldn’t they discuss that or the champagne or _anything_ else?

“Have you seen him cook yet, Holly?” Mrs. Komeda asks.

She refocuses on the conversation, realizes she missed something writhing in her own internal discomfort. At least their topic of conversation as shifted.

“Once or twice,” she replies.

Her hedging is for the better, Mrs. Komeda seems pleased that Holly isn’t more privy to Hannibal’s cooking than she is. The implied space between her and Hannibal seems normal and accepted even though she’s his date for this evening.

There’s more distance between him and his peers than she originally calculated. She remembers what he said the first day she was in his house, while they were making lunch.

“I participate in wealthier society when it suits me, but I don’t seek it out,” he’d said.

He keeps everyone at a very carefully maintained distance. Except, perhaps, her and Will.

“It’s an entire performance isn’t?” Mrs. Komeda continues, “Oh, you used to host such exquisite dinner parties, Hannibal.”

Holly giggles at the restrained expression on Hannibal’s face, hiding her amusement in her champagne glass at the gentle squeeze to her hip. She’s never heard someone criticize Hannibal apart from Will—and occasionally herself. It’s refreshing, makes him seem human.

“That’s right, you heard me. _Used to_.”

Hannibal inclines his head in humble deference and unspoken apology. His tone is mockingly grandiose as he replies.

“I will again once inspiration strikes. I cannot force a feast. I must wait for a meal to present itself.”

Holly doesn’t bother rolling her eyes and calling him out. Hannibal has an ethical butcher, she knows, one who prepares their meat with the utmost care or he wouldn’t accept it. Her knowledge of animal slaughter is limited but it seems odd for there to be seasons for certain animals like there would fruits and vegetables.

He’s simply speaking in the metaphorical sense again. Her lips tilt at his theatrics.

“It’s a meal, not a unicorn,” Mrs. Komeda scoffs.

Holly doesn’t bother to hide her laughter this time, although she does turn her face away to avoid Hannibal’s gaze when he glances down at her.

“The feast is life,” he replies, “you put the life in your belly and you live.”

Holly hums in agreement, sipping lightly from her champagne. Hannibal’s been spoiling her with his food; it certainly tastes like life when she’s reminding herself not to scarf it down like a starving animal.

“If that’s the case, then we’ll certainly all be dead according to Mrs. Komeda,” Holly says.

It’s Mrs. Komeda that laughs this time and even Hannibal chuckles, more felt than seen. It fills her with an inkling of pride, knowing she’s navigating herself through a complicated social dance she doesn’t feel she’s had enough practice in.

At work, her occasional ineptitudes are expected and even admired.

“She’s one of our best advertising designers,” her bosses and coworkers boast, “She’s just got that artist’s temperament, you know? We have a very unique workplace dynamic that allows for freedom of imagination et cetera, et cetera...”

She doesn’t have an “artist’s temperament”, of course. A student that lived across the wall from her in college went through roommates like water thanks to her infamous temper. Eventually there had been a counter in the common room that said “number of days since last ‘incident’” to keep track.

Holly knows she’s nothing like that. They just like to pretend she is. They would be taken aback if she acted on her impulses the way the more stereotypical artists do.

“Hannibal, I believe this young man has been trying to get your attention,” Mrs. Komeda says.

Holly turns with curiosity. He is a portly man in a ruffled tuxedo, scruffy and disheveled but not as endearingly as Will. A thin line of sweat has already begun at his hairline and along his upper lip, even though the room is rather cool to accommodate all the bodies. She sees him before she smells him, but once she does, she nearly chokes at his liberal use of cologne.

“Hello,” Hannibal says.

“Hi, nice to see you,” the man replies.

They shake hands and Holly feels a small sigh escape her at the monotony of it. There are some parts of society that already bore her—perfunctory greetings one of them. She hates shaking hands; it’s something that requires biology to make the skin pleasant and thought to make the grip right.

The man drops his hand, casually wiping it on his pants and Holly feels a moment of sympathy for his awkward nervousness. He gestures to the taller man at his side, dark-skinned and more elegantly assembled. There’s on odd smile on his face as he regards Hannibal.

“This is my friend, Tobias.”

Hannibal gently shuffles Holly into the conversation to make introductions as he shakes hands with Tobias. Franklyn’s eyes inevitably fall on her, and they have the unfortunate automatic response of looking her over top to bottom.

It’s a reaction a greater portion of the socialites save for when she isn’t looking. She tends to receive it much the way one might receive sandpaper to tender skin. This time, she does him the favor of pretending to drink her champagne.

“This is my date for the evening, Holly.”

“A pleasure,” she says.

More handshakes are exchanged. Tobias’s hands are cool and firm, but not painful. She appreciates that. Franklyn’s grip is a little too hard for hands that are already in the beginning stages of carpal tunnel, and his palms are sweaty again. She doesn’t embarrass him by wincing.

“How do you two know each other?” Mrs. Komeda asks.

Holly is curious too, but she not enough to ask. Hannibal usually volunteers such information if he feels it’s important or appropriate.

“There should remain some mystery to my life outside the opera,” Hannibal replies.

Holly figures it out even before Franklyn speaks to answer the question.

“I’m one of his patients.”

She bites the inside of her lip to avoid visibly wincing. Hannibal, gracefully wresting the conversation away from troubled waters, continues with an easy close-lipped smile.

“Did you enjoy the performance?”

“I loved it. Every minute,” Franklyn replies.

“Don’t say too much. You must leave something for us to discuss next week.”

Hannibal is about to continue, no doubt to shoo them off in the politest manner possible, when Franklyn’s eyes fall on Holly’s shoulder. Her hair has shifted to reveal the ugly line of scarring, still clear despite her efforts.

“That’s an interesting scar you have there. How did it happen?”

She knows he’s just trying to make conversation, but her stomach clenches nauseously. The weight of Hannibal’s hand on her back is grounding. It helps her force out a response she’s already fashioned for anyone that doesn’t recognize her and what it’s from.

“Oh, just a car crash. I’m lucky this is all I got away with,” she lies.

She’s not sure if Hannibal’s shift is because he’s displeased she lied or with Franklyn for asking in the first place. Her stamina is coming to an end, though. This is more active socializing than she’s had in a while. The effort of controlling her anxiety all night, and now having attention in the last place she wanted it, has fatigued her.

“I’m terribly sorry, but Holly and I have reservations for dinner. If you all would excuse us,” Hannibal says.

Holly hides her bemusement with another polite smile and grits her teeth through another handshake with Franklyn. Farewells are quickly exchanged and then Hannibal is leading her away on aching feet to the valet, who bring the car around promptly. In the quiet privacy of the Bentley, Holly sighs and sags as she relaxes into the seat.

“We have dinner reservations?” she asks.

Even the thought of speaking to a server seems difficult at the moment. Her stomach quietly voices its opinion to her.

“Yes, at our house,” he replies.

She’s glad the car is dark because all the foundation and powder in the world couldn’t hide her blush when he refers to his house as “theirs”. Relief makes her smile a little wider than necessary and respond playfully.

“I look forward to seeing what the chef has prepared.”

He casts her an amused look across the seats before returning his attention to the road.

“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?” he asks.

“More than enjoyed myself. It was fantastic, Hannibal. Thank you.”

Despite Franklyn’s social fumbling, she’s being sincere. Her feet are beginning to hurt from the heels, her dress is weighing heavy despite its beauty, and her makeup has long overstayed its welcome. But this night has been so lovely she wishes she could paint the whole thing from start to finish.

“You’re quite welcome.”

She doesn’t feel like she’s properly expressed her gratitude, but Holly can’t think of any other way. Her mind spins around possibilities until they’re pulling up to the house and Hannibal is opening the door for her.

Holly steps out, wincing at her feet and glances up at Hannibal. They’re standing far closer than usual, a mere sliver of heated air between them. Her eyes, at first startled by their proximity, soften.

The stretch to reach him is languid, a small, worried twinge in her stomach that he’ll pull away and shift to stop her. She doesn’t want to surprise him though, and doing this without his consent will alter their relationship far more than if he politely declines something meant to be innocent anyway.

Her lips press light and chaste to the corner of his mouth, a soft, feathery caress before she settles lightly on her heels again.

“Really, thank you. I can’t tell you how much this meant to me,” she says.

From the expression on his face, she doesn’t need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small question I have for anyone reading--do you prefer the chapter longer like this, or shorter?


	8. Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided adding tags per sexual encounter is the best way to keep the story's tags from getting messy.
> 
> I believe somnophilia is the accurate warning for this chapter. They both remain fully clothed, but Holly is none the wiser and therefore, does not give Will express permission to grind up on her.
> 
> The encounter occurs after the second set of diamonds and begins with a dream sequence.
> 
> If you are comfortable with reading, please enjoy. If not, the next chapter will most likely not contain anything sexual. Or if it does, nothing sexually deviant (I think that's the proper phrasing).

“I made too much pasta and there are brownies in the oven.”

Will blinks, takes a moment to process the unorthodox greeting and the harried tone that accompanies it before a grin begins stretching across his face. The dogs are in the yard, sniffing and chasing each other and Will tracks them idly as they zip by.

It’s cool out, winter is beginning to sink its teeth into autumn, but Will doesn’t mind the nip of the wind. Soon it’ll be too cold to let the dogs run around and play for hours on end, even during the warmest part of the day. He’s letting them enjoy themselves, and he’s enjoying himself with them, free from Crawford and the bodies for once.

He leans his shoulder against a railing post, settling in for conversation.

“Hello to you too, Holly.”

There’s a breathy, sheepish laugh on the other end and Will can practically see the rosy blush flourishing up her neck and over her cheeks.

“Sorry, I just…” she pauses, mutters something unintelligible, “Hannibal’s gone and I keep forgetting that I’m only cooking for myself. Any chance you haven’t eaten yet?”

Will doesn’t even bother glancing at his watch for the time. He hasn’t eaten and though he doesn’t feel especially hungry at the moment, he’s not about to deny the offer.

“Not since breakfast. I can come over there or you could come over here,” he replies.

He hears a barely audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line. Warmth spreads through him that she’s so clearly pleased with his answer, with him.

“Do you mind if I come over there? It’s weird having someone here without Hannibal around, even if it’s you,” she says.

He can understand that. Will practically lives there, and he wouldn’t invite someone over without Hannibal’s consent or presence. He makes a mental note to tell Hannibal about this whole encounter before Holly can, because he knows which details Hannibal will want to hear.

“I don’t mind at all. It’s difficult to find, so just head to Wolf Trap. Call me when you think you’ve driven too far.”

“Okay.”

The two syllables are equal parts confusion and amusement. She sounds intrigued to follow his vague treasure map to “X” marks Will Graham’s house.

“I’ll hear from you in about an hour.”

She calls again fifty minutes later. Traffic must be light.

Will’s moved the dogs inside and put on a proper pair of pants—ones without holes, that is. The dogs are scattered around him, recovering from their playtime. He’s been lounging on the couch, reading and waiting for Holly to call back.

“I think I went too far,” she says.

Will grins and shakes his head, reminds himself that she can’t see any of his affectionate affectations. He settles for a soft snort and a gentle laugh. Holly only sounds mildly offended when she accuses him.

“I feel like you’re leading me out in the middle of nowhere as joke. Am I going to find a creepy cabin and a guy with a chainsaw at the end of this?”

He laughs more fully this time and three of the dogs lift their heads. His eyes drift to the fireplace as he chuckles.

“I _am_ leading you to the middle of nowhere and a creepy cabin,” he replies, “but it’s not a joke and there probably won’t be any chainsaws involved.”

There’s a smile in her voice when she replies without missing a beat. He wishes he could see it. It’s almost surreal that he’s found enough humor in him to carry on a playful conversation. Almost like he knows how to socialize.

“Probably?”

“You never know. Where are you now?”

She hums in thought and her voice is almost serious when she replies.

“There are trees.”

He rolls his eyes and wonders if she can sense it through the phone. She certainly seems pleased with his mockingly exasperated sigh.

“I’m about five minutes out of the town proper.”

Will gives her actual directions; she repeats them back to him and promises to see him soon. Fifteen minutes later, the dogs all jump up in a flurry of fur and wagging tails, clustered at the door. He gets to his feet and wades through the sea of canines to open the door; he doesn’t stop them from streaming out.

Holly is just getting out of her car. It’s dark green and complements the red in her hair. The dogs swarm and she all but dives into the overenthusiastic tongues and wriggling bodies, accepting their unrepentant sniffing and nudging with glee.

“You’re all so cute!” she squeals.

The dogs nearly knock her over as they match her delight. They like her. Will likes her too. More than likes her in that moment. Her smile is bright and unburdened and she’s valiantly trying not to get a slobbery dog kiss to the teeth while she pets each one in turn.

He finally descends the stairs and whistles them to heel. Holly pouts as they obey and conspiratorially goads the more rebellious and excited ones into misbehaving with her.

“You’re trouble,” Will says, “I shouldn’t let you into the house.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, challenging. The effect is ruined with Einstein burrowing under her arm to lick her cheek and she dissolves into giggles.

“Fine, then I’ll eat pasta and gorge on brownies in the car,” she replies.

Will can’t help his smile as she changes her tone as if speaking to Einstein rather than him. He never speaks to them like that, but they seem to like the adoration that seeps into her tone, like they’re small, cute children. They practically are to him.

“You’d be eating alone,” he warns.

“What’s different from the last two nights?”

She gives him a pathetic look as she says it, unnervingly similar to the dogs begging for scraps ever since Hannibal began spoiling them with “sausage”. It appears she doesn’t need bribes for their loyalty. Einstein in particular seems taken with her.

“Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” he asks.

She splits into an impish grin again and shrugs, eyes bright with mischief. She scratches the itchy spot by Einstein’s shoulders, where his back legs can’t quite reach.

“I’m not above fighting dirty,” she replies.

Which isn’t fair, because he was hoping to have a nice dinner with her without the complications of being half hard. However, the implications of just what she constitutes as “fighting dirty” are impossible to ignore, even though she meant it in an entirely non-sexual manner.

“Then it’s probably best if I cut my losses and just invite you in.”

She beams and finally stands again, brushing grass and dirt carelessly from her jeans. Will would spare a thought of sympathy but she put herself there all on her own and she hardly seems upset at the state of her jeans.

He gets a fantastic view of her rear end as she leans across the driver’s seat for their dinner, packed in a small bag. She turns back and holds it away from seven curious wet noses.

“Wise choice, Mr. Graham,” she says, “Your reward is dinner and dessert.”

He leads her inside and tries not to be self-conscious as her gaze drifts over the space. It’s not as messy as it used to be—mostly because of Hannibal’s influence—but it’s still a far cry from the orderly, elegant home she’s been living in. It’s for the better, he thinks, there’s no point in hiding his usual state of being from her.

Not with everything else he and Hannibal are keeping from her.

“I like it. It’s warm,” she says.

There’s no pause before “warm” as if she’s trying to find the right word to describe it. Her tone implies more meaning and sincerity than if she’d written him a full length essay describing what she likes about his home in detail. He ducks his head to hide his relief and pleasure.

“I’ll get us plates,” he says.

Holly hesitates at the door with Einstein, Buster, and Fitz circling around her legs like fuzzy sharks. Will realizes that she’s waiting for an invitation to come in further and the strangeness of such formality almost makes him laugh again.

“C’mon in. Make yourself at home.”

She follows him into the kitchen and unpacks the Tupperware containers. He pulls down a couple plates and locates clean forks, setting them by her elbow so that she can dish out the pasta. Will hovers over her shoulder, mostly to annoy her as she serves him a decent helping first.

“Looks good,” he says.

He means it. It looks like she’s made carbonara and it smells so delectable his stomach growls loudly in appreciation. She does him the service of not commenting, but there’s a knowing and delighted smile on her face.

“I hope you don’t expect me to have a wine to pair it with,” she replies.

He feels some relief that she’s not been too influenced by Hannibal, that she’s keeping this an informal affair. He’s not even sure where his wine glasses are; Hannibal bought him a small set, but always brings his own from home when they eat at Will’s place.

“I hope you weren’t expecting me to have one either. I’ve got whiskey.”

“I like whiskey.”

Dinner is casual and friendly. Will envies the ease with which Holly slips into comfortable companionship with him. Now that her mind isn’t plagued with fear and trauma, he can understand how that sharp, dark part of her has stayed hidden for so long. Where Will wields empathy, Holly is shielded (even from herself) by a natural ability to assimilate.

“Hannibal took me to the ballet,” she says.

Will arches his eyebrows as though he hadn’t already known this.

“Did you meet his snooty high-society friends?” he teases.

She nods and her faint smile is shy and smitten. He wonders if she makes that face talking about him but doesn’t feel any jealousy. It’s just curiosity and maybe a small tendril of longing.

“A couple. They didn’t seem awful, but we only spoke for a few minutes,” she replies.

She tells him about Franklyn and he watches how her cheeks flush with secondhand embarrassment. Her recount of the awkward encounter is gentle. Amused but not mocking, dismayed but not mean. She doesn’t pity Franklyn.

Will likes that about her. She could be mean—anyone can be mean—but she chooses not to be. Even when it’s just the two of them. He knows how any number of people could have described the exact same set of events without being so generous in their compassion.

Even worse would have been the pity, but there’s no sign of it in her voice or eyes or face. There’s certainly a grimace there, but it stems from mild sympathy at worst, empathic acknowledgement from her own failings and fears.

It makes Will feel a little better about his social ineptitudes around her.

When dinner is finished, she magnanimously helps him clean the dishes, including the ones they didn’t use for dining. He pours her another two fingers of whiskey even though she’s already rosy and giggly with it. She doesn’t ask if he’s trying to get her drunk, but he’s not.

They squeeze onto the recliner, an old blanket stretched over them. She snuggles into him as they tear apart two brownies each and watch Star Wars on his laptop. The dogs settle with quiet snuffs around the fire, content in their beds with the sound of blaster fire and the crackle of lightsabers.

When the galaxy is saved and Luke Skywalker is waving at the ghosts of his dead predecessors, Holly stares into her empty glass with lazy consideration. Her head is pillowed on his shoulder—has been since the protagonists escaped Jabba the Hutt—his arm taken hostage by both of hers in a cuddly hug.

Not even Hannibal is this liberal with physical contact, but Will finds he doesn’t mind, not with Holly. She’s warm against his side, but not too hot, soft and supple. She smells so good too, like something flowery and clean without being too sharp. His head feels pleasantly hazy with it.

“Will, I’m tired,” she murmurs.

She follows this with a yawn and he gently pokes an arm out to extricate the tumbler from her loose hold.

“You shouldn’t drive,” he replies.

Her head tips back to look up at him with big eyes, made wide and innocent by the alcohol. It’s endearing.

“But I don’t want to be a bother…”

She draws out all the soft vowel sounds, singing more than speaking at this point. Holly probably has a lovely singing voice.

“You’re not. C’mon, I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

She follows him slowly, reluctant to leave their warm nest. Her steps lack their usual grace, quiet thumps across the hardwood floor. After digging through his messy drawers, Will unearths an old pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt that hasn’t been soaked in sweat before.

“The bathroom is through there,” he says.

Holly wanders in and closes the door. Will busies himself by wrangling extra sheets and blankets to make the recliner inhabitable. Or somewhat inhabitable. God, he wishes he’d agreed to the couch Hannibal wanted. His back is going to hate him tomorrow.

Somewhere along the way he hears a thump and Holly groaning, followed by reassurance that she’s alright. He’s just gotten his impromptu bed made when Holly comes out of the bathroom, rubbing her arm. Before he can stop her, she flops onto the cushions and settles in.

“Thank you, Will,” she sighs.

Which is ridiculous because he knows there’s a broken spring that’s digging into her hip at the moment. She should not look so comfortable and content.

“You can have the bed,” he says.

She narrows her eyes at him. He interprets it to be her sleepy, buzzed version of a glare.

“No, I’ll sleep here,” she replies, “I’m a guest. You get the bed.”

Will knows there’s no point arguing with Holly, especially like this. He sighs for effect but tucks her in, and she smiles at him, finally wiggling into a more comfortable position.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Come get me if you need anything,” he says.

He doesn’t think about the kiss he drops casually to her forehead until he’s already shucking his jeans. By then it’s too late, and he half hopes she’ll have forgotten about it by morning, even though she’s not _that_ inebriated.

His last thought as he’s settling in is that he’s looking forward to seeing her come sunrise.

◊◊◊

Holly jolts upright, swallowing a scream. For a moment, she mistakes a broken spring for a gun pressed into her back and she scrambles away, nearly trampling a couple of Will’s dogs. Luckily, they’re faster and more alert than she is and they scrabble out of her way in time.

When she finally comes back to reality, Holly realizes she’s flattened herself against the fireplace, back to brick. The room is dark, illuminated only by a half-full moon, but she finally recognizes the dark shapes of Will’s furniture like slumbering beasts. The dogs are staring at her curiously, some with ears perked, others with ears back—the latter likely the ones she nearly stepped on.

No ghosts or dead people. No guns. No threats.

Einstein approaches and licks the back of her hand. She smooths a hand down his coat until her heart stops pacing frantically and the panting subsides. Fatigue inches in again, but with the unfamiliar shadows of the room, Holly can’t convince herself to return to the recliner.

Finally, she surrenders and shuffles to Will’s bed, standing awkwardly at the edge and debating if she should really wake him. Her choice is made for her when a branch outside scrapes the window and she nearly climbs on him.

“Will?”

She gently shakes him but he rouses quickly. It takes a moment longer for him to recognize her, squinting in the darkness.

“Holly? What are you…?”

“I—I had a nightmare,” she replies, “Can I…?”

Will’s folding the blankets back before she’s even finished speaking. No questions. No judgements. No irritation for waking him up in the middle of the night like a child.

“I sweat,” he warns, “a lot.”

“I’m cold,” she replies, “a lot.”

She crawls onto the bed and presses herself against him. He _is_ strangely warm, burning hot like a living furnace, but it’s perfect for her cold feet, which she promptly presses to his calves. He grumbles, but she knows he doesn’t really mean it, especially when his arms circle around her tightly.

Her head settles under his chin, she tucks her face into his neck and sighs, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. For a moment, his thumb strokes soothing circles into her back and then they drift off into a more soothing oblivion.

◊◊◊

There’s a full moon over Holly’s head, glowing soft iridescent light onto the dark world like a celestial kiss. She tips her head back to admire the wealth of stars sprayed across an endless velvet night, enjoys the cool caress of a breeze across her skin. A light dusting of snow sprinkles the very tops of the pines in her line of sight, shimmering like crystal.

A twig snaps somewhere near her, and when she wrenches her gaze away from the sky, she’s met with bleak, thick forest. The ghostly, twisting white shapes of trees breathe around her, silent as corpses, looming. Holly appears to be the only person in the world, but the sound was far too purposeful to be coincidence. A shudder vibrates down her spine as she feels the intensity of an unseen observer.

She’s being stalked. Hunted.

Holly forces her gaze back to stars, every instinct in her body screaming at the exposure of her soft, vulnerable throat. Horror leeches the resolve from her bones as a crimson rip bisects the moon, dripping, gushing, filling until the white is swallowed whole and the world is tinted red.

Another crack, this one closer. Her head jerks. Panic energizes her petrified limbs, thaws a gasp from her frozen lungs. A third snap—too close—and when Holly faces the sound a pair of eyes reflect back, gleaming scarlet.

She twists and bolts in the opposite direction.

The trees seem to reach out and claw at her, branches whipping against her skin as she stumbles and sprints through the forest. It gets denser the further in she runs, complex roots systems tripping her up, but turning back isn’t an option. The beast is right behind her, with a sound like the clap of hooves and the heavy thud of boots.

Holly screams when the creature finally pounces, easily knocking her to the ground. The impact is softer than she expects. She feels the brush of feathers and the chalky residue of ash, but the air is still knocked from her lungs. Struggling to breathe, she tries to wriggle out from beneath the powerful predator.

Antlers crash into the forest floor on either side of her, a cage of tine, and Holly cries out, going still. The weight along her back is solid and heavy, stretching the length of her. Even if she keeps resisting, she doubts she’ll get far. It’s better to save her energy.

Her eyes squeeze shut as the body over hers shifts and there’s a gentle puff of air at the exposed back of her neck. Instinct makes her twitch, a whimper caught in her throat. A show of submission would be the right course of action here. It may appease the beast, but Holly can’t force herself move.

When she feels teeth, it’s not the brutal, painful death bite she anticipates. She squeaks at the light nip she receives instead, shifting to try escape again. This time, a low growl is her warning—and likely her last. Holly trembles, quiet, scared sounds keening from her throat before she can swallow them.

“Shush. It’s only me.”

Holly’s eyes burst open and the antlers are gone, replaced by the corded muscle of Will’s arms. The weight on her back no longer seems smothering and she didn’t notice it before but it’s burning heat.

“Will?”

He hushes her again, sharp teeth scraping light and teasing over the tender spot beneath her ear. Holly’s answering whimper is laced with fear and pleasure in equal measures. She doesn’t fear him, but this still feels deliciously dangerous.

Where is the creature that was hunting her? Why is Will here? Why isn’t he letting her up?

Thoughts of monsters in the dark and hidden threats scatter when he rocks against her, his erection nestled against the cleft of her ass. A gasp rips from her; she crushes handfuls of ash and feather in her palms.

“Will…”

His tongue traces a filthy, wet line up her neck before he nips again at the same spot as before. A hot bolt of pleasure surges through her. She arches her back for him, feels his thigh slot warm and solid between hers. A moan drips from between her parted lips as he grinds against her.

She’s rewarded with delicious friction and an almost worshipful kiss when she mirrors him, rocking her hips back just once. When she stops, he jerks against her again, and she understands she’s meant to continue.

And really, she wants to. God, it feels so good. He feels so good, and he’s hardly touched her.

They find a rhythm, two warm bodies writhing against one another in the silent company of a thousand barren trees. Holly knows they’re the only two in this whole forest, in the whole world perhaps.

“Holly.”

Will breathes it into the back of her neck, voice quiet and strained and adoring. Her heart beats a frantic rhythm against her ribcage, but all she really hears is the sound of him panting, groaning low in her ear.

“Please,” she whispers.

God, she needs…something. It’s burning up, coiling tight and powerful within her.

He shifts slightly, the seam of her pants rubs against her clit just right and she cries out.

Stars collide. Cataclysms of light and sound and pure energy burst, and split planets and galaxies, eviscerating everything in its path. The red tint is snuffed into black and all Holly knows is blinding pleasure running rampant through her body.

And they haven’t even taken their clothes off.

When she opens her eyes, the world is bathed in soft moonlight again and the bed is dipping behind her as Will climbs in again.

 

It starts out as a nightmare. Holly, who’s since shifted onto her other side since joining him, jerks and shivers. Will wakes when her elbow jabs him in the ribs and he can’t find it in himself to be irritated. Especially not when she makes a pathetic, wounded sound.

He curls an arm around her waist and tugs her back flush against his chest. She struggles, still in the throes of her dream and he moves close to her ear, his stubble scraping lightly over her skin. She whimpers, quiet and scared and something in him stirs.

It’s not a very nice thing, Will knows. He’s felt it since he met Holly, a deep, dark impulse that admires her beauty and fragility—admires with destructive force. Half the time, Will wants to tear her apart as much as he wants to protect her from the world and the contrast feels like a private tempest.

Biting back that violent temptation, he murmurs in her ear. The effect is miraculously instantaneous. Her tense muscles melt into pliancy; her head tilts to allow him access to the vulnerable expanse of her neck and she sighs his name.

Will is already half hard from the natural redirection of blood flow in his sleep, but the experience of Holly, so unrestrainedly submissive, fills his erection out. When he scrapes his teeth lightly over the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, she whimpers softly and he can’t resist rocking against her.

Part of him is starting to wonder if this isn’t his own dream, brought on by having her in his bed and pressed up against him. Another part of him wonders if he shouldn’t wake her up. Then he slips into the mindset of Hannibal, the master manipulator, and he recognizes this for the opportunity it is.

Most people interpret dreams as the desires and fears of the subconscious, brought to the forefront of the mind. There’s no way for Holly to construe what she’s seeing now as anything other than sexual desire. It’s a brilliant way to prime her, ideal really, when dreams are something she could only assume to be of her own manifestation.

Will doesn’t rouse her.

He wants to taste her, and he does, chasing a shadow along the slope of her neck with his tongue. The urge to bite down, tear into the flesh and let her blood bathe his senses nearly overpowers him, but he holds back.

He reminds himself that _soon_. Soon he and Hannibal will be able to share their violence with Holly and Holly will share her own violence in return.

He settles with a gentle nip and is rewarded for his restraint with the cant of her hips, the graceful arch of her back. Still so relaxed in his hold, Will is able to nestle his leg between her thighs and then she’s grinding back against him with so much enthusiasm he’s surprised she doesn’t wake herself.

Most of his higher mental processes shut down as his world narrows down to the rock of her hips and the too-dry, too-good friction of fabric against his cock and the way she quietly moans his name.

The half-moon trickles in just enough light that he can admire the glow of her skin, the soft shadows kissing her features. He wishes he could see them pooling into the dips and curves of her body.

Something dangerously stronger than affection tightens the building orgasm Will feels deep in his gut. He groans her name quietly in her ear and she whines, practically begging for release. Will acquiesces, shifts his thigh to press more firmly against the apex of her legs.

She gasps as she comes, a pleasured, keening sound falling from her lips. Will doesn’t last much longer, not with the knowledge that he just made Holly come without actually touching her.

Once he’s finished making a mess of his underwear, he carefully slips out of bed and snatches up a clean pair of underwear, retreating into the bathroom. The cleanup is kept quick and quiet. He feels guilty about leaving Holly as she is, but waking her up for that express purpose would implicate him.

He stops by the kitchen for a glass of water and lets the dogs out while he’s up. She’s stirring by the time he climbs back in, skin chilled from the cold air outside.

“Will?” she mumbles.

“Sorry, I was letting the dogs out. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he replies.

She makes a noise that he roughly translates to “don’t worry about it” and clambers out of bed with as much grace and dignity as she can. He settles in again to enjoy the traces of his afterglow while he waits. Holly returns about ten minutes later and seems to hesitate after climbing in.

Will reads her pause and knows it’s not because she realized he was awake the whole time and encouraging her fantasies. She’s worried she did something in her sleep, incriminated herself in some way.

Will draws her in against him again. He’s already thawed off the cold from being outside, returned to his normal toasty temperature while Holly is already shivering, likely from trying to cool herself down in the bathroom. She doesn’t resist, seems more interested in the heat and the comfort he offers than being sheepish.

They fall asleep again and the rest of the night proceeds without further interruption.


	9. Exhume

After his week away, Hannibal is more than pleased that Holly is waiting for him at the end of baggage claim. On the phone the day before, he assured her that she didn’t have to pick him up. She drove him there for departure, yes, but he could easily take a cab home. The flight is early, she has work, it would be rude to inconvenience her.

Two small children riding coach screamed through the majority of the flight. Even in first class Hannibal could hear them, and there is only so loud he can allow himself to play classical music. That, and the woman across the aisle didn’t seem to comprehend the meaning of the word “moderation” in regards to perfume.

He’s relieved she insisted on retrieving him.

Once he’s reclaimed his luggage, he walks towards the rental car dealerships at the behest of her most recent text. He finds her leaning against one of the columns by the windows, passively observing the sea of travelers. Like a shark swimming idly through a school of fish, except this shark doesn’t quite seem to realize what she is yet.

He adjusts course. She notices him long before he reaches her and even from his distance he can see her absolutely beaming. She abandons the column to meet him halfway.

“Good morning,” he says.

“You’re back!” she replies.

She throws her arms around him, face tucking into his neck. Hannibal reciprocates as best he can with his bags, surprised by her enthusiasm but indulgent of the affection. His hand lingers at her waist as she pulls away, a light flush dusting her cheeks.

“How was your trip? Do you want any help with your bags?” she asks.

“It was enjoyable and I can manage, thank you,” he replies.

They don’t dally in the arrivals for long after finding each other. She hasn’t parked far and Hannibal takes the passenger seat with relief, having escaped the clambering chaos and odors of the airport.

Holly is tactful. She’s clearly missed him, but she lets him enjoy a few moments of silence while she navigates through the heavy traffic leaving the airport. Once the roadway is clearer and they’re well on their way home, Hannibal begins conversation.

“Did you do anything interesting while I was gone?”

She hums thoughtfully, eyes on the road.

“I had a sleepover with Will. Tried a new café in town,” she replies, “Otherwise, I was busy with projects. The house was lonely without you, though.”

Hannibal has to applaud how casually she mentions the “sleepover,” especially considering the incident that occurred. Will told explained the whole encounter, of course, but Hannibal is left to wonder what she saw in her dreams.

“How was your sleepover with Will?” he asks.

The blush she’s barely managed to restrain finally blooms across her face.

“Fun. We watched Star Wars and ate brownies. I felt like a teenager again,” she answers.

Hannibal doesn’t torture her with more questions on the subject—he already has most of the information he wants. Holly’s perspective on the event will have to wait for another time.

When they arrive home, he’s satisfied to discover that it’s just as clean and tidy as when he left. Holly has to deal with a phone call from one of her coworkers and retreats to her workspace with an apologetic look. Hannibal walks his luggage upstairs and unpacks before returning to prepare an early lunch.

The kitchen is just as immaculate as always. The only sign that Holly’s had the run of the house is the sketchbook left open on the counter. With Holly’s increasingly frustrated voice still sequestered in the parlor, Hannibal capitalizes on the opportunity to peek at the drawings she’s usually so discreet with.

The rendering is imaginative yet uncannily accurate. Will and Hannibal share an entire page, poised nude as if they’d been modelling for her, with a refinement fit for divinity. Most of it is drawn in pencil, save for a red length of fabric preserving their modesty. The skill is undeniable, the influence of Renaissance masters identifiable but not overpowering Holly’s distinct flare.

It’s breathtaking.

Hannibal has already returned to cooking their meal when she enters the kitchen. She doesn’t notice the sketchbook at first, attention divided between the phone call and washing her hands.

“You don’t have to cook if you’re tired,” she says, “I could make something.”

He rewards her for the consideration with an affectionate smile as he begins slicing into the meat he had her thaw the night before.

“Would you be terribly offended if I preferred to cook? I’m afraid I’ve missed my own kitchen,” he replies, “but I would welcome your assistance.”

She laughs and dries her hands on a towel, only then noticing the drawing. Her eyes widen but she manages to sustain a smile as she quickly flips the book closed.

“I figured you might say that,” she says, “I’d be glad to help.”

They lapse into silence, Hannibal focused on preparing lunch, Holly trying to distract herself from her fumble. For the most part she’s successful, focusing on peeling a slippery fruit whose name she can’t remember. Hannibal doesn’t own a peeler, so her thumb guides the path of the knife just under the skin and the action requires most of her attention.

“I enjoy your art,” Hannibal says, “You have a very distinct style.”

Holly yelps as the flesh of her thumb yields to the wicked blade; both the knife and the fruit clatter to the counter. Hannibal immediately leaves his own station, fingers curling around her wrist in a firm grip, directing her to the sink.

She hisses and jerks her hand back at the first sting of the water, but his hold is a vice and after the initial pain she doesn’t resist further. Her face is already flushed hotly and not at all helped by Hannibal’s closeness. The heat of his body seeps into hers, even with layers of fabric between them.

“Apologies. I should have been conscientious of the knife in your hand,” he says.

Which is just the final nail in her coffin, rounds out this whole experience. He was trying to open a casual dialogue about that damn drawing—which Holly knew from the start was probably inappropriate—and she had to go and mutilate her own hand. And now he’s apologizing. To Holly.

She can’t force her voice above a murmur.

“I should have been paying attention,” she replies.

Hannibal watches her from his peripheral, wondering if her eyes are watering from pain or shame or both. She looks like she wants to crawl under the sink and stay there. Still, whether she notices it or not, she’s leaning into him, seeking physical contact and comfort even as she tries to withdraw into herself.

“I suppose we are both at fault in this case,” he says.

Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she shakes her head. Unable to stand their proximity for much longer, Holly retracts her hand, grimacing at the beads of blood that immediately well to the surface.

“Did I ruin the fruit?” she asks.

Hannibal levels her with a look but she must be taking notes from Will because she studiously avoids his gaze. Before she can put some distance between them, his hand settles on her waist.

The touch is purposefully light, offering her the opportunity for escape, but it traps her as effectively as if her feet had been glued to the floor. She knows she has to face him, accept the consequences of her carelessness. Embarrassment eats at her as she waits for his disapproval to wash over her like acid.

“I’m not offended by the drawing, Holly. Neither, I think, would Will if he saw it,” he says.

Holly’s rapid thoughts screech to a halt, her mouth drops open in surprise. Hannibal’s free hand takes her wrist again, gently and without the urgency of the moments before. She tracks the ascension of their hands no further than his chest, still processing his words.

Hannibal considers her injury for a moment, knowing he has the time to do so at his leisure. The wound is deeper than he anticipated, but it’s hard to determine if it needs stitches now that it’s obscured in blood again. Watching Holly’s expression carefully, he draws her hand the last few inches to his mouth.

She is delectable. Coppery sweetness bursts across his tongue, taste buds awash.

Her eyes dart up to his and stay, skin paling and then flushing all over again. She can only manage a gasp when his tongue traces the length of the cut, her unoccupied hand clutching the sleeve of the arm at her waist. Hannibal half expects her to jerk back—he knows it stings—but she doesn’t and that pleases him more than he’d like to admit.

Reluctantly, he releases her hand, tongue darting out to chase the taste of her. She doesn’t stray far, hand settling lightly on his cheek.

Holly’s kissing him before she convince herself that not to. He tastes like blood, she thinks, her blood. That should be weird, nauseating even. It isn’t.

It’s intoxicating.

He traces the seam of her lips like it had the wound and she opens her mouth to him. Need flutters warm and low in her belly as they explore, teeth nipping, tongues dancing. The hand at her waist slithers around to the small of her back, cradling her close, bodies flush.

It’s languid and sweet, but something deep in Holly stirs that isn’t merely arousal, it is hunger.

She wants to sink her teeth in the good doctor.

Hannibal is the one to break the kiss, feeling the wet touch of her still-bleeding thumb on his skin. A quiet, needy sound is pulled from Holly’s throat when they part. Hannibal can’t help his smile as he waits for her to catch her breath and steady herself.

“We should get this stitched up,” he says.

She nods hazily and trails him to the bathroom.

◊◊◊

“Fuck them both.”

Holly’s mouth drops open. She snatches up an unopened sugar packet and hurls it at Stephanie, who has the good grace to flinch through her giggles. A couple heads turn, either from Stephanie’s perfectly audible advice or Holly’s outburst. The café is quiet this time of day, it’s no surprise that their antics are drawing attention.

Holly brought Stephanie here to talk about the recent developments in her relationships with Will and Hannibal. She’s already explained the night at Will’s, and the kiss with Hannibal, which is the most discussion she’s had about either subject at the moment. It’s been frustrating, she could use a break from the tension and the confusion.

Even if Stephanie is intent on embarrassing her in public.

“No,” she huffs.

Stephanie arches an eyebrow and sips from her cup. If such an action can even be done skeptically, she’s certainly mastered the art.

“Why not?” she asks.

“I don’t want to lead either of them on. I already feel guilty about the kiss with Hannibal after what happened with Will, and neither of us were even awake.”

Stephanie sets her cup down and leans across the table, voice low and conspiratorial. There’s a mischievous grin on her lips that Holly knows to fear.

“I didn’t say it had to be separate thing,” Stephanie stage-whispers.

Holly chokes on her mouthful of coffee and nearly spits it out, a hand covering her mouth and nose. Stephanie leans calmly out of the line of fire, a shit-eating grin splitting her face. Holly glares through her watering eyes, coughing.

“That’s not going to happen,” she finally replies.

Stephanie tips her head curiously.

“Why not?” she repeats, “Don’t pretend it’s against your delicate sensibilities.”

Holly rolls her eyes and waves away her friend’s assumptions about her arguments. They long ago gave up the pretension of boundaries. All avenues of discussion are open between them, including sex.

High school and puberty opened up a brand new and questionable world that was better to discuss safely between best friends than with parents or counselors in a small town like theirs. Bottom line, they know what the other is open to and what the other has tried.

As Stephanie often likes to say: “Life is too short to pretend you’re not into some kinky shit.”

“That’s not it. It’s just not realistic. I can see Hannibal going for it…maybe, but I don’t think Will would,” Holly explains.

Now Stephanie rolls her eyes, as if the answer should be obvious.

“That’s why you have to _convince_ him.”

The emphasis and the suggestive eyebrow wiggle make Holly giggle, shaking her head. A flush stains her cheeks, brain briefly but vividly supplying a picture of just what that would entail. Everything in the universe seems to be working against her right now, even her own mind.

“You haven’t asked your doctor?” Stephanie asks, “She could probably give you healthier advice.”

She laughs at the expression Holly makes, sneering at the lid of her coffee cup. It’s no secret between them that she doesn’t like Doctor Bloom very much, especially since she’s begun hinting that it’s time for Holly to live on her own again.

A dangerous, territorial part of Holly, that’s only cropped up recently, wants to lash out. Ask if it’s so that Doctor Bloom can finally fuck Hannibal without the threat of Holly walking in on them. Another, smaller part of her isn’t ready to leave, is afraid of losing the connections she’s made with him and Will.

“She’ll just tell me some crap about imprinting and how I’m only imagining romantic connections because they’ve helped me through emotional turmoil. There’s no way I’m telling her about what’s actually happened.”

It was more difficult then Holly wants to admit to even tell Stephanie, never mind Doctor Bloom, who has evolved into more of a nuisance than anything. Holly still remembers to throw her a bone every once in a while. Makes sure to look broken but picking the pieces up.

She’s getting better at it with each session.

“And you’re sure you’re not?” Stephanie asks.

She’s checking, making sure her friend doesn’t end up getting hurt. Holly appreciates that even though it grates on her nerves, just a little.

“I’m sure.”

The matter is settled just like that and the hint of irritation she felt melts away. Stephanie is first and foremost on Holly’s side, always and forever. Obligatory questions have to be asked every once in a while, for posterity’s sake.

Once they’ve finished their coffees, they go for a bit of window shopping, ducking into stores now and again. Stephanie needs Christmas cards, Holly needs new sketch pencils. She wants to buy Will and Hannibal gifts, but it’s something she’d rather discuss with them first, in case it’s a sore subject for one or the other or both.

While they’re in a clothing store, discussing new jackets for the fast-approaching winter, Holly gets a call from Will. She slips outside for the privacy of the sidewalk, where a thin stream of people flows past.

“Hello?” she answers.

“We have Bryan Williams,” Will says.

She inhales sharply as her brain scrambles to process. It takes a surprisingly short amount of time.

“You have him? He’s…he’s off the streets? For good?” she asks.

“We caught him, Holly. You’re safe from him now. He can’t try to hurt you again,” Will replies.

They exchange a few more words, but he’s clearly busy and it’s still sinking in. Holly finally reenters the store and Stephanie approaches her, curious. They nearly take out a clothing rack when Holly explains, but Stephanie treats her to a drink as celebration.

Even with their detour to the bar, Holly is home in time to help make dinner. As soon as she sees Hannibal, she throws her arms around him. Despite her conflictions, she kisses him again. They prepare dinner in companionable silence, enjoy the meal with the usual reverence.

She feels free without the constant weight of Bryan Williams’s unseen gaze on her back. It doesn’t feel dangerous to have the curtains open, or to walk into the backyard without staying close to the porch.

It’s only as they’re cleaning up that it occurs to her. This is probably the end of her time living with Hannibal. After all, he offered her his home mainly so that she would be safe from Bryan Williams. With him apprehended and Holly almost entirely recovered, is there any feasible excuse to stay?

“I need to go out for just a moment, Holly,” Hannibal says, “You’ll be alright on your own?”

She feels equal measures relief and despair, stemming from being left alone with her thoughts. Swallowing back any indication that of her mental state, she nods and smiles.

“Yes. I’ve got an email to send to one of my coworkers, anyway,” she lies, “Drive safely.”

He leaves without kissing her. She wishes he had. It would give her some measure of reassurance, small and insubstantial as it would be, but now she feels set adrift without an anchor to hold onto. That old loneliness and insecurity rears up within her and leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

She decides to distract herself by further reveling in Bryan Williams’s incarceration. Her laptop glows softly as she powers it up. Hannibal doesn’t own a TV, but the internet will supply multiple sources of information about the capture anyway.

Settling back in her seat, she skims the list of results and frowns, double checking that Google’s suggestions haven’t sabotaged her. When “Bryan Williams capture” remains steadfastly typed across the search bar, she buckles and goes to Tattlecrime.

If anyone has information, it’s Freddie Lounds.

There’s nothing. The latest story is about something going on in Vermont, nothing that even has to do with Will. She glances down at her phone, resting on the table by her hand and frowns. Will wouldn’t lie to her, not about this. Perhaps it’s being kept out of the news altogether…because of people that would sympathize with him?

That must be the answer. Or maybe it’s just old news. Uninteresting. Still, she calls Stephanie and asks her not to mention Bryan Williams’s apprehension to anyone, that it’s being kept under wraps in case there’s some official FBI reason after all. Her friend’s discretion secure, Holly retreats to her room to lose thoughts in art.

◊◊◊

“What do you think, Holly? What should we do to him first?” Will asks.

Holly stares down at the prone, bloody form of Bryan Williams. It already looks like a fair number of things have been done to him. One of his legs is bent at an unnatural angle. His shirt is shredded and bloodied and Holly can see a few nasty lacerations littering his skin.

But he’s still alive and alert enough to struggle. Will’s knee digs hard and vicious into his diaphragm and he gasps in pain, body giving out at pressure applied to undoubtedly broken ribs.

Fear twists tight and sharp in Holly’s gut. Will looks savage, ferocious, like a lion crouching over its prey, savoring the hunt as it comes to an end. He’s arms and clothes are soaked in blood, his face streaked with it, and his eyes glint brightly. He’s regarding her with open adoration.

 _He’s beautiful_.

She stumbles back, confused by her thoughts and by this situation. Will couldn’t…he could, but he’d never…he wouldn’t….

When she collides with someone, a pair of warm, muscular arms circle her waist. A warm caress of breath sweeps across the side of her neck, making her shudder. It feels as much like a cage as an embrace and she doesn’t know whether to struggle or melt.

“You should be allowed to choose first, Holly. He’s our gift to you,” Hannibal says.

Her breath hitches, stutters. She accidentally meets Bryan Williams’s eyes and she sees an animal fear there, but also hollow victory.

_He’s been right about her all along, they all have, and oh god, how could she have not seen it sooner…?_

“I—I didn’t ask for this. Hannibal, Will, please…”

Will grins at her crookedly, and it’s her favorite, the one that she sometimes manages to coax out of him. The bright one that isn’t as strained and grim as the other ones.

“Of course, you didn’t, that’s why it’s a gift,” he says.

_It’s such a thoughtful gift. They thought to give her this, to let her have him first…_

“Don’t keep our beloved waiting, Holly. What would you like us to do first?” Hannibal asks.

Holly can’t comprehend what’s happening. Will and Hannibal did this— _are_ doing this—for her.

 _Because they love her. Because they want her_.

It’s written plainly across the expressive line of Will’s face. If she could see him too, Holly’s sure she’d see some hint of the same in him.

_Don’t let their love go to waste. You love them too. Show them._

The small concrete room, lit only by a single overhead fixture, seems to shrink. Over Will’s shoulder, a feathered stag shifts and snorts softly, its great antlers scoring the ceiling. In the shadow of the only light, she sees the opaque silhouette of what she has come to call the wendigo.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” she says.

She doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know what they want or expect of her.

She meant to tell them to stop, to let Bryan Williams go.

“Yes, you do,” Hannibal replies, “You know, Holly.”

Holly gasps and flails and strikes her hand on the bed post. She bites back a curse as she sits up but the pain clears her head. Once her hand stops throbbing, she glances around, comforting herself with the familiarity of her room.

 _It was just a dream_.

Holly’s had plenty of dreams about her and Will and Hannibal, especially the three of them. They’ve just never involved discussion of torturing someone like they’re deciding dinner. Holly runs her hands through her hair as the dream play on a loop in her mind.

After a moment, she confesses to herself. It wasn’t Hannibal and Will that scared her, not really. The fear came from the power she felt, the intoxicating rush of seeing Bryan Williams at her feet and knowing…knowing they had done all that for her, that it would only take a word and they’d gladly rip him to shreds. Hell, that they would let _her_ rip him to shreds.

A shiver grips her at the echo of that feeling in her veins.

Her thoughts drift away when she hears a quiet sound in the hallway, the closing of a door. She checks the nightstand, unsurprised to see that they’re well into the ungodly hours of the morning. Hannibal isn’t just getting back, is he?

She fell asleep before he got home, but surely his errand didn’t take all this time. No, he must just have been getting water. Speaking of, Holly could use a drink herself after all her gasping. She goes to the _en suite_ first, bladder overruling thirst, washing her hands but not flushing to avoid the loud rush of water.

Satisfied, Holly slips out of her room and pads to the kitchen. She knows the house well enough by now that she doesn’t bother with lights, locating the kitchen with practiced ease. Once she’s had her fill, she peels back the bottle’s label to claim it and sets it on the shelf.

Her eyes land on a new package of meat, one that hadn’t been there when she went to bed. She frowns, pokes at it like it might be made of smoke and finally picks it up for further study. A heart. It’s a heart. She’s never had heart before. Looks too small to be cow and too big for pig.

Setting it back on the shelf, she takes a step back, trying to puzzle out where it came from. Hannibal didn’t run out to get a heart of all things? Not at night, not when he could just as easily gotten it in the morning.

Planning to ask in the morning, she shuts the fridge and notices the pantry door cracked open. It’s a place open to her, though she doesn’t often have a reason to go inside, unless she’s getting something for Hannibal. Chest tightening, Holly finds herself venturing inside.

The ingredients in the spare refrigerator have changed since the last time she entered, but otherwise nothing is different. Holly shakes her head at herself. Her dream is just making her paranoid, which is ridiculous because all her dreams are pretty surreal. Murder has been a common theme for months—just because Will and Hannibal made a predictable appearance doesn’t mean anything.

She turns to leave, intent on sleep, when her elbow bumps into a container of aerating wine. Managing to catch it at the last moment, some spills onto the floor anyway. She’s looking for a towel to clean up the mess when she hears the dripping.

Frowning, Holly kneels next to the puddle flooding the seams in the floor and listens. There’s definitely something beneath.

Hannibal has never mentioned a cellar.

It takes a moment, but she finds the latch and opens the door to a basement. The steps leading down are steep and cold beneath her bare feet and halfway down she realizes how dark it is. Now that she’s already there, though, she doesn’t bother going back up to try to find a flashlight.

Holly takes small, blind steps across the room, teeth sinking into her lip with each one. She feels along the walls, finds cabinets, shelves, counter tops—all smooth metal or glass—until she feels a switch. She flips it up and squints as a light flickers to life above her, before the rest of the line follows.

Her eyes adjust.

“Oh my god.”

There’s one more room, separated from the rest by a screen of plastic flaps. It doesn’t stop her from seeing Bryan Williams’s corpse laid out on a long steel table, chest cavity carved open, organs scooped out. They’re not far from their origin—most of them seem to be sequestered in a metal basin.

She can’t see the heart. It could be buried beneath the intestine, but she already knows it’s upstairs, in the fridge.

Holly distantly hears the last light burst on behind her but she’s already seen enough. She doesn’t want to see any more, if there’s more to see. God, she hopes there isn’t more to see.

She needs to go _now._

When she pivots on her heel, Hannibal is standing in front of the stairs. Her heart stutters, she stops breathing. His expression has always been difficult to read. Now it reveals nothing and somehow it reveals everything. She never realized the glimpses she saw of what lurks beneath his mask until now.

His hand darts out and the basement is drenched in pitch black.


	10. Surrender

The image of Hannibal just before the lights cut off is seared behind Holly’s eyelids. The unnatural stillness of his body, the black shadows scarring the sharp planes of his face.

Then he moved. She’s never seen someone move so fast. The last glimpse she had of him, he was bolting to the left. His left—her right. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed course since then.

God, he’s so quiet.

A cold sweat slicks her skin, makes the soles of her feet slippery against the smooth concrete floor. Panic claws at her throat and the instinct to sprint to the exit nearly overpowers her. She forces herself to tread slowly instead, pacing each step steadily while she listens for any indication of Hannibal’s whereabouts.

When she doesn’t immediately feel the cold kiss of a blade sliding into her flesh, she remembers how to breathe. It feels too loud in the silence of the basement. The paranoia mounts, her stomach churns, each step more difficult than the last.

Why did she come down here? Why couldn’t she have just let it go at the pantry?

Her heart slams into her ribcage, her hands shake with the pure lightning that seems to crackle through her veins. The air stirs to her left. She jerks in the opposite direction, trips over her own feet, tangles in a low hanging chain.

The chain rattles down from the ceiling, coiling with heavy, bruising force on her abdomen. Location blown, she cries out and scrambles back, gets caught in another length. Survival instinct dominates, destroying the ability to calmly free herself. Before long she’s tangled up in the links, kicking back until she’s tucked into a corner.

A hand closes over her mouth.

She screams and bucks, tears burning her eyes as she lashes out. There’s some satisfaction when her bare foot connects with _something_ and Hannibal grunts. A sharp tug at one of the chains coiled around her leg jerks her away from the wall. Her head clips the wall as she’s dragged across the floor.

Dazed, she struggles blindly until her hands are trapped at her sides and Hannibal’s weight rests solid on her legs. Only then does she realize she’s sobbing, probably has been for a while, ever since she realized there was no chance of escape.

The crook of her elbow stings. She recognizes the bite of a needle and the seductive pull of the drugs, aided by the rapid pulse of her heart. Her last thought is of which organs Hannibal will harvest.

◊◊◊

Hannibal is surprised she doesn’t beg him for her life. Thinking back to the day her father tried to kill her, Holly didn’t beg then either. Not with her father to spare her, not with Will to save her. He uncertain if it’s purely from fear or an understanding that no amount pleading will change the mind of creatures such as them.

When the sedative has Holly firmly in its grip, Hannibal stands, straightens himself out, and turns the lights on. He unravels the chains from her limbs and torso, and lifts her slack body into his arms.

Clever, brave girl, noticing the heart and the pantry door, venturing into the depths of the basement. She was performing admirably until he moved too close and she succumbed to fear.

Hannibal climbs the stairs and carefully navigates through the pantry and kitchen, relocating them to his office. The black leather therapy couch will is the most suitable surface for her. He drapes Holly along its length and gently brushes messy stands of hair from her face, his fingertips lingering along her cheek.

A natural hunter, his Holly, at home in the darkness up until the moment she recognized the lion in the den.

Hannibal heard her wake from a dream just as he was returning to his room. He followed her as she ambled to the kitchen, witnessed the connections her observant mind made through her expressions as she retraced his steps to the basement.

There is, of course, still a great deal of room for improvement, but Holly can hardly be held accountable.

Wild animals domesticated in captivity often lack the skills necessary for survival in their natural habitats. Holly, whose father didn’t raise her with the knowledge of the hunt, has been taught to quell the riptide currents of her emotions and express them in pencil and paper and paint.

As if they could ever compare to the canvas of a fresh body, the masterpiece of one’s design displayed with terrible and beautiful honesty in the golden radiance of day.

No, Holly has spent enough time withering in the flock. This turn of events is admittedly premature to their original plans, but Hannibal and Will are masters of improvisation. Her accidental discovery changes little overall.

He must call Will though. The sedative is meant to last only as long as it will take for Will to arrive, and when Holly wakes, it will be better if they are both present.

He answers on the fifth ring, voice groggy and rough with sleep.

“Hannibal, what…?”

“She knows.”

Will curses. Hannibal can hear the creak of the bed as he sits up, the rustle of the sheets.

“Where is she?” he asks.

Hannibal glances down at Holly’s still form. There are a few bruises beginning to darken on her arms and legs, but those were caused in her panic, by the tight coil of the chains. He makes a mental note to check her head, but he doubts the blow was hard enough to concuss.

“In my office, unconscious. The sedative should be effective only for another forty-five minutes,” he replies.

Will sounds slightly out of breath and distracted as he replies.

“I’m heading over now.”

◊◊◊

Holly’s head swims as she drifts back to awareness. Her eyelids flutter; she recognizes the gray and red stripes of the curtains in Hannibal’s office, which means she’s lying on the stereotypical therapy couch. Mind cottony, tries to remember what brought her to this point.

Their last encounter crashes into her mind.

She bolts upright, eyes scanning the orderly room for Hannibal. It doesn’t look like he’s here, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. He’s a serial killer. _He’s a serial killer_.

Heart pounding, the remaining effects of the drug ebb and her brain helpfully picks up where it left off in the basement. Will’s call about catching Bryan Williams, the lack of media attention, the man’s _body_ in Hannibal’s basement. Will knows; he’s _helping_.

And oh, god, the body. Open and hollow. The heart in the fridge. There’s no other explanation for why it would be there and her brain supplies the word. Cannibal. Hannibal is a cannibal. The irony nearly sends her into a fit of hysterical giggles.

Gripping the edge of the couch, Holly forces her mind to organize the revelations into pieces so that the gestalt is easier to swallow. Swallow. Oh, god.

Hannibal is a serial killer.

Hannibal is a _cannibalistic_ serial killer. He eats the bodies of his victims. Or parts of them, anyway.

Which means she’s also been eating them, and so has everyone else. Holly remembers the opera, how enamored Mrs. Komeda is with Hannibal’s cooking and his dinner parties, unaware of what she’s actually applauding.

Holly’s not sure what she feels, but oddly not sick. Not yet, anyway.

Hannibal’s latest victim is Bryan Williams. Bryan Williams’s heart is currently being preserved in the fridge.

Will helped Hannibal capture Bryan Williams and that is the very least of it, if he didn’t help in the murder and mutilation itself.

Will is probably a serial killer and most definitely a cannibal too.

And Holly was slowly falling in love with both of them. Not _is_ in love. No, not yet. But she was getting there. She could have been.

That thought is what finally causes fresh tears to sting her eyes, betrayal sitting heavy and cold in her chest. She takes a moment as the truth sinks in, leaving a ragged, bloody wound in its wake, but she knows she has to get moving.

She’s just peeling herself from the couch on unsteady legs when she hears the even, steady footsteps. A fresh surge of adrenaline makes her stiff limbs feel loose.

Whether it’s from the drugs or the shock, Holly’s mind seems calmer, more calculated. The patient door is tempting, but it’s likely locked. It would be a waste of precious time reach only for it to be a dead end. She glances at the ladder leading up to the second story.

Unless Hannibal has a gun, she’ll be safe up there. He’ll have to climb up to reach her and by the time he does, she’ll have sprinted to the other end and jumped down. Assuming he doesn’t make the same asinine choice, she’ll have the extra time it will take to follow.

Decision made, Holly darts to the ladder and ascends in a rush, slowing and stopping when she reaches her destination. Hannibal appears in the doorway only a second later, his gaze already on her up amongst the books.

Holly isn’t prepared for the anger.

It washes through her in a tidal wave of hot fury, fueled by her betrayal and the indignation of imminent death. The minute, amused smile on his face doesn’t do him any favors. She wants to punch him, stab him with the scalpel on the desk or hit him of the head with tha stag statuette by the wall.

Instead, she grabs the first thing she can—a small clock, surprisingly—and hurls it at him.

He ducks out of the way at the last moment, the impromptu projectile arching in the air to hit the carpet. She wishes it hit the wall and shattered into pieces. Petty, yes, but she’s not feeling quite mature at the moment. She’s out for blood.

“That was rude, Holly,” he says.

“You drugged me!” she shouts.

He considers for a moment, then inclines his head as if to say “fair enough” but there’s no way in hell she’s going to take this lying down. Her mind seems to have accepted—a least superficially—the truth of matters. Now she’s pretty sure she’s in one of the stages of grief but she’s not sure if she’s grieving her own death or the relationships she’s lost with Will and Hannibal.

“You chased me in the dark! You’ve been feeding me people! _People_ , Hannibal!”

His hands anchor themselves in his pockets, as if they’re casually discussing a book of poetry or their favorite Greek epic. Like they’ve always done. Her chest aches; she fights back a new wave of tears.

“You enjoyed every meal,” he replies.

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

“Doesn’t it?” he asks, “What makes anything ethical or unethical?”

She stares at him. He’s not seriously going to argue the philosophy of ethics in regards to cannibalism is he? Of course he is. She wants to throw something else at him, but she’s not willing to take her eyes off him to find a satisfactory weapon.

Before she can fathom a response, Will’s voice calls out into the silent house. She denies the automatic reaction to watch the doorway, instead keeps her eyes locked with Hannibal’s. That seems to please him, which probably isn’t advantageous to her.

“Hannibal?”

“In here, Will. Holly’s awake.”

From the corner of her eye, Holly notices an ornate book end. Will’s barely through the door when it slams into the wall a few inches from his face. He jerks back, glances up at a seething but unarmed Holly and shoots Hannibal a dry look.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says.

“I wanted to see if she’d actually put any force behind it,” Hannibal replies.

“Of course I would!” she snaps, “You’re both serial killers!”

_The ballerina unfurls from her position on the forest floor, stretches with languid grace and stares up at the stag and the wendigo as if just seeing them for the first time. Horrified, she leaps away, huddles behind the false safety of one of the trees._

Will grimaces and warily ventures further into Hannibal’s office. Holly is well and truly pissed, prowling up on the second story like a caged jungle cat. He understands her anger but he hopes she doesn’t throw much else at them.

It will do little more than chip away Hannibal’s patience and stall the inevitable.

“Yes, we are,” he begins slowly, “but that doesn’t change anything.”

He expects Holly to yell at him. Will expects her to rant and rave and pace tracks into the carpet.

Instead, tears well in her eyes, make rivers down her cheeks as she retreats from the railing and flattens her spine against the books. His heart rips a little, seeing the betrayal and the grief written so plainly across Holly’s features. She surrenders to the pain.

He braces himself against his empathy as her emotions combine with his and buffet the moorings of his mind.

Her world just keeps upending her, over and over in an infinite tumble. One life destroyed by her own father and his lies, and now another just as abruptly terminated by Will and Hannibal’s deceit. The two people she’s relied on so completely, who she trusted unconditionally.

“Yes, it does,” she sobs, “It changes everything. You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”

Will’s expression softens, and he knows Hannibal’s will as well. This was never going to be easy, but it’s like trying to cut through a body with a plastic knife. The bonds they’ve all strived to build have been annihilated in a single, premature encounter.

“Not outright, Holly, and not when we could avoid it,” Hannibal replies.

She doesn’t allow herself to look away, even with tears streaming down her face. Will feels shredded on the inside having to witness it.

“So you offered me a place here. Let me found out just so you two could be the ones to kill me,” she says.

Each word is laced with bitter agony. She wraps her arms around stomach. If she doesn’t, she’s going to fall apart all over again, like she had in the kitchen. Except now she doesn’t have Hannibal and Will there to pick up the pieces and assure her that she’ll be alright.

They’re the one shattering her.

“We’re not going to kill you,” Will says.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“He’s not lying, Holly,” Hannibal replies.

Her hands clench in the material of her shirt, nearly tearing the fabric. She wants to believe them so badly it’s eating away at her from the inside out; whatever glue has been holding her together all this time is disintegrating.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispers.

Will takes a couple steps further into the room, but she doesn’t respond past uneasy shuffling, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“We’ve wanted you since your father tried to kill you, Holly. You know we couldn’t tell you everything immediately,” he explains, “but we’ve hinted at it as best we could.”

Hannibal naturally continues for him, and Holly can see the chemistry they must share in the hunt. How could she have never noticed it before?

“Our plans have always been to reveal ourselves to you. It occurred sooner than we anticipated, but your next course of action is entirely open to you. Whatever you choose, we will not harm you.”

Holly’s bottle lip trembles. He’s lying—he’s hurting her right now. They both are. How can they be so cruel, feeding her all the lines she wants so desperately to hear and believe?

“So you’ll keep me here as a prisoner instead?” she guesses.

Will shakes his head. He doesn’t even want to imagine it. Caging her up like a pretty songbird would be the only truly atrocious crime they’d be guilty of. Watching the life and the light drain away into dull sepia tones as Stockholm twists her fierce, wild spirit into something monstrous. His stomach churns.

“We wouldn’t deny you your freedom,” he says.

“Any more than we hope you would deny us,” Hannibal adds.

She frowns and has to swallow before speaking again, her brain having difficulty processing.

“You want me to keep quiet about it. What if I didn’t? What if I went straight to Jack Crawford and told him everything?”

Will buries his hands in his pockets, his distaste for the idea displayed sincerely in his features.

“We wouldn’t stop you,” Hannibal replies, “but we wouldn’t stay, either.”

Holly feels truly conflicted. As terrified of them as she is, the idea of them disappearing without a trace, as if they never existed, is more painful than discovering the truth was.

“Why?” she asks, “Even if I believe you, _why_?”

_The ballerina turns as if to run back to the lake, to flee to that place she drowned, but the trees of closed off the entrance. She stays anchored to her hiding place._

Will’s tongue darts out along his lips as he shifts closer to the ladder. He’ll have to be the one to wrangle her. Even though she knows he’s just as dangerous as Hannibal, Hannibal is the one that drugged her and traumatized her in the first place.

He doesn’t envy the effort that will have to go into salvaging that bond.

“We see something in you, Holly, and I think you’ve begun to see it too.”

She shakes her head and tries to make herself smaller. Will knows he’s struck something.

“You do,” he says, “You felt it when Bryan Williams attacked you. Do you remember what you told me in the hospital? You felt powerful. You enjoyed having his blood on your hands.”

Her breath is coming hard and fast now. The words echo in her skull and unbidden the night replays in her mind. The thick, slick heat of his blood soaking into her clothes, staining her skin. She remembers the ink black sheen in the moonlight and how beautiful she thought it was, the pulse of divine power that rippled through her.

_Even as the ballerina tries to shield herself from her two companions and from the world, the dried blood begins flaking away, chipping off to mingle in the ash and feathers on the forest floor. The figure beneath is radiant._

She stumbles back as Will slowly, steadily climbs the ladder. He’s relieved when she doesn’t try to throw something heavy at him.

“No. No, I—I didn’t mean…”

“I think you did. You know what you are Holly. You know what’s been slumbering inside you all this time and it’s time to release it.”

She nearly trips scrambling away from him, but catches herself on the railing. She glances at the ground floor indecisively, the need to escape her own mind awakening her flight instinct. If she tries to jump, she knows he’ll pounce before she gets too far. Besides, she’ll have Hannibal to contend with at the bottom.

“Holly, you’ve already begun your design on paper. Why not bring it to the material world where it belongs?” Hannibal asks.

Will keeps approaching at a glacial pace, which somehow serves to frazzle Holly’s nerves more than if he’d just rushed at her. He seems entirely calm but she intuitively knows he could strike in a fraction of a second.

“I’m not like you two. I’m not a killer,” she says.

It sounds weak, even to her own ears. Fresh tears stain her cheeks and she finally turns her face away, unable to bear the truth she sees in his eyes. Bryan Williams and his blood keeps flashing through her mind. The dream she had just before she went into the basement, how badly she wanted to join Hannibal and Will and utilize that power they so graciously bestowed upon her.

And the others. The ones painted in screams and symphonies of blood. Ones that she sometimes had a hand in and other times she simply stood back and _saw_.

“Why are you trying to fight it, Holly?” Will asks.

And she realizes then that she doesn’t really have an answer for that. Why is she still denying herself from that power, from that transcendence? Because society has trained her to be a meek thing, a _lamb_? And why should she be? What makes any person more worthy of living or dying or of making that choice for themselves or for another?

Will closes the distance between them. Holly lashes out automatically, fist landing directly in his stomach. Grunting, he catches her wrists in a firm but gentle grip, but she doesn’t fight him. The touch is grounding, but longing for that familiar comfort nearly chokes her.

Unexpectedly, she remember Katie Becker. The first corpse she’s ever truly seen and she realizes then that it was their work. Hannibal’s, most likely. She interpreted the message correctly that day, in the kitchen. Support for the artist, coming abundance.

The image of Katie’s body had a gruesome beauty, she recalls now. She hadn’t want to think about it then, so shocked and initially appalled as she had been. Now, though, Holly sees it, the elevation of the card and of the person herself, the higher purpose she served. A girl that is, overall, only going to be missed by a few.

Her body wasn’t just meant as a message of support and good faith. It was the courting gift of one monster to another.

_The detritus of the lake has finally crumbled away. Her skin is once again pristine. The cape of feathers, first white like virgin snow, is now colored the same bone white of the trees, fading into a downy sweep of crimson._

_The wendigo and stag seem unbearably far now, when just a moment ago they seemed just a hair’s breadth away._

“Please,” she whispers, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Will’s voice is soft and warm, the adoration he feels for her a nearly visual thing. She’s only now realizing that her eyes have been closed as she’s been swept up in her inner plight.

“We’ll show you how and you won’t be alone,” Will says, “Not ever again.”

The words sweep over her, through her. Her eyes flutter open.

_The ballerina stalks from the shadows._


	11. Embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I've been very busy with exams, work, and Christmas. Thank you for your patience and thank you to those that have critiqued and supported this fan fiction. I'm always looking to grow as a writer!

Holly is exhausted.

Drugs, adrenaline, sleep deprivation, and the sheer magnitude of all that’s occurred in barely two hours, has left her fatigued. She slumps against the bookshelf as blinks up at Will. His hair is more of an unruly mess than usual, his eyes watery, but his smile is reassuring.

It feels like her spine has melded to those of the books. Holly thinks of how she’d like to be one of Hannibal’s volumes. Quiet and safe among others of the same kind, preserved in print condition on sturdy oak. Cherished and respected while in use, helpful. She wonders what sort of book she would be.

Will entwines their fingers and tugs her from the corner.

The office has the surreal quality of a dream; she feels disconnected. Will’s palm settles warm on the small of her back. She detects the faintest tremor in his hand. It occurs to her that he was as afraid of losing her, as she of him and Hannibal.

She tucks her lip between her teeth until dull pain sharpens the fuzzy lines.

Will helps her down from the ladder first. The rungs make the arches of her feet ache; she hadn’t noticed going up, but now she winces. She never expected to use the ladder again. The pain should be a blessing, but Holly doesn’t want any more pain tonight. Will holds it steady as her palms rasp dry down the sides. Weren’t they sweaty a moment ago?

Hannibal is waiting at the bottom. He offers his hand, palm up, as he always does.

She hesitates, forces herself to meet his eyes. She feels like she could plunge into their depths and sink forever in their void. There she would find Hannibal—the real Hannibal, the wendigo—crouched and coiled, licking from his lips the blood of a thousand victims.

Or maybe it’s her blood she’s imagining. Maybe there isn’t a difference.

“You scared me,” she says.

He nods and Holly observes with enlightenment the subtle shifts of his features, shifts that she’s always been aware of but never analyzed. His expression, his _mask_ , now reflects regret and apology.

 _If it’s a mask_ , she wonders, _does that make it disingenuous?_

“I know. If I could have avoided it, I would have,” he replies.

No, she decides. It doesn’t. The mask is a necessary thing and a testament to Hannibal’s flawless self-control. There is not an ounce of emotion revealed without his consent. He has no need to pretend to be sorry; keeping up appearances now would be a moot point.

Her hand settles in his as she descends the last couple steps. Hannibal’s hand twitches around hers when she doesn’t pull away immediately afterwards.

“We should all get some rest,” he says.

Will joins them and hums in agreement. Sleep sings its siren song, tugging at Holly’s weary mind like the sweetest music. She nods, but plucks at the front of her sweat-stained shirt.

“I’m going to shower first,” she says.

They don’t follow her out. Holly wonders if this is a test, if they’re expecting her to sprint for the door and make good on her threat to call Jack Crawford. Holly surprises herself by only thinking of it when she’s already upstairs.

She knows the choice she’s made and why she’s made it. Going back now would be devastating.

The shower doesn’t serve to clear her senses, as it usually would. It only serves to make her warm and clean and drowsy. The stench of fear and stress is scrubbed away by the sweet fragrance of roses and shea butter. She half-expects the water to run red and black, clog the drain in a thick, swirling whirlpool, and finds herself a little disappointed when it doesn’t.

Holly doesn’t linger long beneath the spray, nearly dozing off as she rinses out conditioner. She towels off in the bathroom, and combs tangles from her hair. As an afterthought, she squeezes out as much of the damp as she can, sponging the water out with a spare towel.

Neither Will nor Hannibal are in her room when she emerges in a billowing cloud of steam. She’s a little surprised and disappointed by that too. Just finished dressing, there’s a polite knock on the door. When she calls in a soft voice that it’s open, she’s greeted by them both.

Will is dressed in mismatching pajamas, curls an endearing chocolate halo around his head. Hannibal wears long flannel pants and a soft-looking red sweater, hair sweeping across his forehead free of product. They look cozy and warm. The longing that springs in Holly’s chest is familiar, but sharper than usual.

“Would you prefer to sleep alone?” Hannibal asks.

Holly should at least consider it first, after everything.

She already knows what will happen if she sleeps alone. Nightmares and self-conscious doubts, visions of basements and drugs and handcuffs and guns. Even if Hannibal and Will are the cause, they’re the solution too. And they would be the solution, humanized here by their own sleepy slowness. She can’t get that alone.

Holly thinks of how she cuddled up to Will, precious and protected, the way his arms feel around her waist and how she fits beneath his chin. She thinks of how strong Hannibal is, and how their bodies fit, from hugging and from kissing. The allure is seductive.

Holly should consider all this before she answers. She should put these thoughts into reasonable, logical order. She doesn’t. The answer is given without hesitation. She only thinks of them after.

“No.”

There follows a pause. Hannibal’s expression is pleasantly neutral.

“Would you prefer to sleep only with Will?” he asks.

She didn’t think that was an option, didn’t even think to _want_ it to be an option. Holly opens her mouth to ask him why in the world she would want that. Doesn’t he know she’s been agonizing over this for (what feels) an eternity? Then, miracle of miracles, she can have them both and _now_ he’s asking if she wants only one.

That’s not what comes out.

“Would you be upset or jealous if I said yes?” she replies.

The question is manipulative, maybe even intentionally so. They’d know better than her at this point; they are both well-versed in manipulation. Holly doesn’t seem to know up from down at the moment. Hannibal isn’t fazed; Will’s eyebrows arch as he tries not to grin.

“No. I would understand your reluctance,” Hannibal says.

As interesting and reassuring as that is, Holly shakes her head, takes a miniscule step closer.

“Both of you,” she says.

The both smile their own small smiles and lead her to Hannibal’s room. The first—and really only—thing she notices is that his bed could probably fit _four_ people comfortably. Three will have ample room.

Holly’s never ventured into his den before, and in the morning she will study every square inch with avid curiosity. For tonight, Holly just wants to collapse on blue linens lighter than her own.

“The middle or an end?” Will asks.

Again, she doesn’t think before she responds—it doesn’t seem like something that really needs consideration. Holly vaguely recalls Stephanie at the café, grinning and arching her eyebrows suggestively.

“The middle.”

The bed has been turned down in open invitation, and Holly doesn’t hesitate to claim her spot. Hannibal follows and settles in behind her, Will flanking and facing her. The bed in her room is comfortable, but Hannibal’s is a cloud, and the sheets feel like flowing water rather than fabric.

When she feels Hannibal shift to snuff out the bedside lamp, panic springs. It grips Holly tight and all she can do is grip him in return. The basement swims in her vision and she smells the sharp sterility of chemicals. Chemicals strong enough to strip evidence off floors and walls and the insides of pipes.

Hannibal stays frozen but Holly doesn’t feel any tension in his muscles, not even where her nails dig into his forearm. Will scoots closer, eyes flickering tender across the planes of her face. His fingertips feather across her cheek and edge into her damp hair; his palm, warm and rough, cups her face.

For a moment he says nothing, and for a moment, that’s enough for her.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” he murmurs.

She wants to reciprocate, but she can’t unlatch herself from Hannibal’s arm. She wants to tell him that she _knows_ , that she’s always known, but her ridiculous lamb’s brain won’t stop its incessant prey-response.

Her eyelids flutter. She samples the darkness there, brushes her lips where Will’s thumb meets his wrist. She banishes thoughts of the basement, of the cold, hard metal chains weighing her down.

“I’m most safe where I’m in the most danger,” she says.

A tired smile tugs at her lips that Will mirrors, their eyes meeting for a rare moment. There is his empathy again, where sympathy or pity would be in anyone else. She wonders if he went through this when he first met Hannibal—really _met_ Hannibal.

“There is no danger here, Holly. Not for you,” Hannibal says.

And she allows herself to believe him. She has to at this point, because what else hasn’t she accepted tonight? If she’s capable of coping with the revelation of what lurks inside her, and in Hannibal, and in Will, surely their intentions are easier to swallow.

Wiggling onto her back a little, Holly cranes her neck to see Hannibal. His expression is relaxed, softened by the lamp’s golden glow and by some emotion she’s only noticed in fleeting moments. His eyes glint amber as he regards her with the same gentleness Will did. Holly can finally release him, thumb sweeping over the crescents her nails have left.

“May I turn the light off?” Hannibal asks.

His voice is smooth and warm as honey. Holly focuses on it as she settles on her side again and hums the affirmative. A moment later, the room is plunged into darkness. Her muscles tense automatically, memories writhing to the surface and coiling around her like eels. She focuses on the tactile instead.

Hannibal is flush against her back, heart beating steady in his chest. An arm circles around her midsection, follows the length of her arm until his hand rests atop hers and their fingers lace. Gentle, warm breaths fan across the back of her neck and her shoulder.

Will is a living space heater, but Holly doesn’t mind, at least not yet. Their legs tangle together, her thigh hitched up onto his hip. His hand spans flat against the side, fingers curving to the back. This thumb strokes across the soft skin a few times as her free hand curls in his shirt.

Slowly, the memories fade into silence, Holly’s muscles relax. With them, she can feel Hannibal and Will settle in too, their breaths becoming deep and even, a quiet snore from the latter.

Holly thinks, in her last few moments of consciousness, that she would enjoy sleeping like this for the rest of her life. If they’re to be believed, that’s exactly what Hannibal and Will are offering.

◊◊◊

Awareness filters in dull and lazy as sunlight seeping through the crack in the curtains. Holly’s brain is always slow in the mornings, but today it’s hazier than usual. She doesn’t care. She’s warm and comfortable, sleepy enough to doze off again if not for the pleasant, ticklish fluttering along her neck and shoulder.

She sighs and stretches her extremities, enjoying the sweet, gradual pull of muscle. A work-roughened hand coasts down her thigh to her calf before reversing directions. On the next inhale, she smells Hannibal’s cool spice and Will’s heady warmth. Her mind languidly fills in the gaps, explains the circumstances that brought her here.

“Good morning,” Hannibal says.

Holly hums in reply, tilting her head as his mouth grazes the length of her neck. She doesn’t have the forethought to suppress the shiver that travels her spine. Hannibal smirks against her skin.

“Did you sleep alright?” Will asks.

She hums again, this time in the affirmative, blinking against the light to see Will’s tongue trace the veins in her wrist. Desire flares low in her belly, but not urgent, just a low simmering heat that courses through her.

“What about you two?” she asks.

“We slept well,” Hannibal replies, “We’ve missed you in our bed.”

Their hands are still entwined from last night. Hannibal squeezes lightly as he drops another kiss to her shoulder.

“Can’t miss something you’ve never had,” Holly says.

She brushes the fingers of her free hand over Will’s bottom lip, smiles when his curl around her wrist and he brushes his lips over each fingertip. Hannibal’s kisses don’t stop, but they’re not petulant, not vying for her attention. She likes it all the more for that reason.

“We hadn’t missed you until we met you,” Will replies.

Holly giggles, under-caffeinated and too relaxed to argue logic or philosophy. Hannibal presses his mouth once more to Holly’s neck, this time with the hint of teeth, and sits up.

“Come. We’ll have breakfast,” he says.

He squeezes her hip as he slips out of the bed, taking half the warmth with him. She groans. The room seems unnecessarily cold even though she knows it’s what kept them from overheating during the night. Will, sympathetic, lets her snuggle up close with hands curling loose in his shirt.

Hannibal doesn’t know that she usually spends a good fifteen minutes lying in bed every morning, scrounging up the energy to move. Will knows after the night she spent at his place. He doesn’t urge her to move while Hannibal pads to the bathroom.

“He’s a morning person,” she sighs.

Will chuckles at Holly’s dismay, smoothing a hand down her spine.

“You’ve known that. You’ve lived with him for months,” he replies.

She makes a dramatic noise, nuzzles up against him, and shuts her eyes in defiance.

“Are we sure he’s human?” she asks.

“No.”

This coaxes a quiet laugh from her. She angles her head to watch the closed bathroom door, ear against Will’s chest. Like this, she can hear the rhythm of Will’s heart, could compose a whole symphony to it.

Hannibal emerges still wearing his pajamas, much to Holly’s delight. She’s so very gleeful to be privy to the composed, meticulous doctor outside his three-piece. Seeing Will and Holly are still cuddled together, with no intention of leaving, he sits on the edge of the bed and extends a hand.

And god, he look so inviting, so imploring, that Holly untucks herself from Will’s side to crawl across the mattress. When she reaches Hannibal, she shifts to her knees and scoots closer, until his arms encircle her. His sweater is as soft as it looks; she decides she’s definitely going to steal it.

As she settles into his side, nearly on his lap, it occurs to her that this, _all this,_ is a level of intimacy they haven’t shared before. It’s something she’s craved, especially after realizing her feelings. However, she’s always been cautious of boundaries, overly conscious of her own tendency towards physical affection.

After last night, it’s clear that they’ve loosened their self-control a little, at least in regards to…this. This is a natural, physical intimacy that requires time and comfort and patience to bloom properly, organically. The only thing worse than not having it, in Holly’s mind, is it being forced—but this doesn’t feel forced.

The relationship Hannibal and Will have already established and cultivated must be projecting to her, seeping into their interactions. Holly doesn’t dislike it—not by a long shot—but she wishes she was confident enough to reciprocate rather than relying on invitation.

“What would you like for breakfast?” Hannibal asks.

Her brow furrows, because Hannibal doesn’t usually ask. She’s always just arrived to a plate of food and eaten without complaint. But there’s a human heart in the fridge, and probably other similarly sourced meats, and she realizes he’s allowing her an easy transition into this. Her heart flutters a little.

She chooses not to think about how strange it is that her not-boyfriends aren’t pressuring her into premature cannibalism.

“Whatever you originally planned is alright. We’ll just see how I do with the…meat,” she replies.

Hannibal inclines his head, eyes alighting on her face for a moment.

“It’s not our intention to pressure you, Holly. If you’re uncomfortable or unsure, you should tell us. We’ll adjust our behavior accordingly,” he says.

Holly shakes her head. The last thing she wants is for them to withdraw again, especially now with all this affection. The displaced feeling is to be expected; their relationship dynamics have changed, are _still_ changing. She just needs to reorient herself. She certainly doesn’t feel _uncomfortable_.

In fact, she might be too comfortable.

“I’m alright, I just…I think we should all discuss last night. Once I’ve had coffee,” she replies.

Hannibal smiles in that way she recognizes so easily now and kisses her forehead. He stands, tells her to come down when she’s ready, and pads to the stairs. Just as he’s gone, Will exits the bathroom and smiles at her before following Hannibal.

Taking that as her cue, she huffs and stumbles out of bed, into Hannibal’s neat bathroom. Once she’s relieved herself, she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She starts at her unruly mess of hair, scans her face and neck and shoulders, down her arms.

After a few moments with nothing visibly amiss, she realizes she’s looking for some physical marker of her choice. As if some corporeal brand would appear on her skin to announce the change to lesser mortals. But it’s not really a _change_ is it? No, her choice wasn’t to _change,_ it was to _become_. It was to accept what she is, who she is.

Satisfied—save for her hair, which she tries to comb into submission with her fingers—she exits the bathroom to eat breakfast with cannibals.


	12. Confer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I know I've been slacking. I meant to update for Valentine's Day, but that simply wasn't possible.
> 
> On a side note, if anyone is interested in being a beta-reader for this, please let me know. I could use the extra help.  
> Thank you, and as always, enjoy! --CM

Holly follows the sharp, earthy aroma of coffee towards the kitchen and discovers the sizzling pop of oil along the way. Her stomach rumbles despite the knowledge of what’s cooking. Or maybe it’s _because_ she knows what’s cooking, and she knows she enjoys it despite her lingering reservations.

As she steps into the kitchen, a deep, husky sound draws her gaze to the corner. Will is crowding Hannibal against one of the counters, their bodies flush. Holly falters in the doorway, surprised to see Will’s hands clutching the hem of Hannibal’s sweater, and Hannibal’s hands tangled in Will’s curls.

A small twinge of guilt burns her stomach, knowing that Will and Hannibal had to hide this from her. Of course they would so that she wouldn’t misunderstand their relationship and their intentions. If she’d been aware of them from the beginning, she wouldn’t have allowed herself to develop amorous feelings. They would have been labelled “off-limits” in a corner of her mind.

“Finally rolled out of bed?” Will asks.

Holly blinks, blushing to realize Hannibal and Will’s attention on her. She didn’t mean to stare; she was just lost in thought. Fortunately, they only look amused and pleased to see her, despite her interruption. Hannibal takes a small step back, untangling a hand from Will’s hair to gesture to a steaming mug.

“Just as you like it,” he says.

Holly crosses to the counter for her coffee, cradling it between her palms. She takes a scalding sip, ignoring the sear across her tongue for a reprieve from their heavy gazes. Despite the heat, the brew is buttery and mellow, the taste of dark chocolate lingering on her tongue.

At some unspoken cue, Will shuffles enough for Hannibal to slip back to the sauté pan. Holly drifts from the wooden prep table to the counter on the right side of the room, leaning her hip against the cabinet. Hannibal sends her a brief smile across the stovetop.

It almost feels like a normal morning.

Except for all the ways it’s observably different. Hannibal’s movements have always been graceful and confident, but there’s a more relaxed set to his shoulders this morning. The flourish of his movements is less restrained.

Something in his expression is more open too, more honest maybe. Not a crack in the mask, more like a shadow behind the curtain. Whatever normally lurks beneath is closer to the surface, a dark shape swimming beneath a thin plaque of frost.

She glances at Will as he shuffles closer, his own half-finished mug in hand. He still looks sleepy and bed-tussled, squinty-eyed and unshaven. Golden tendrils of sun highlight his features and turn his chocolate curls into a glowing halo. Not for the first time, she thinks he’s gorgeous. Unfairly so. Cannibalistic serial killers shouldn’t be so attractive.

“You look better this morning,” he says.

He leans back against the counter at an unobtrusive distance and smiles a little.

“I feel better,” she replies.

And she does. Physically and mentally, she feels worlds better than she did several hours ago. A full, nightmare-free sleep cycle has given her that, at least. Emotionally…she’s not quite so certain.

Hannibal and Will lied to her and manipulated her. The former part is understandable, in regards to both their relationship and their nocturnal activities.

(Murder is a nocturnal activity, isn’t it? After all, the chance of witnesses is much higher in the daytime, but Will and Hannibal are cannibals; they may not have any compunction about killing in broad daylight.)

Holly knows they couldn’t just come out and tell her that they murder and cannibalize people.

To an extent, the manipulation is understandable too.

That doesn’t mean her head doesn’t spin when she thinks about how her world has shifted once again. Or that her stomach doesn’t plunge at the memory of Hannibal stalking her in the dark.

_She was so sure that he was going to kill her, after everything. Did he consider it at all? Even just for a moment? Would Will have done or said anything if he had?_

She’s not sure where last night leaves them. Certainly, their words and actions this morning affirm that this relationship isn’t platonic. It also became clear last night that she isn’t appalled by the thought of bloodying her own hands.

She feels like she’s overthinking this. It should all be clear-cut and obvious, but nothing is simple when Hannibal is involved. Holly is walking into something with people refined and established in this dynamic, with no experience or knowledge to speak of for herself.

“How’s your coffee?” Will asks.

Grateful for the distraction, she takes a long drink and offers him a sip as an olive branch. He accepts with an arched eyebrow, staring into her mug like an eyeball is about to float up.

“Perfect for me, but there’s cream in it. It’ll probably be too sweet for you,” she says.

He takes a sip anyway and promptly grimaces, feigning gagging. She giggles and retrieves her mug as he chugs the dregs of his own cup. Hannibal watches from the stove with an amused curve to his lips.

“I warned you.”

“That’s more sugar than coffee,” Will replies.

The click of the stove turning off draws her attention as Hannibal removes the pan from the heat. He plates their breakfast with his usual flare, reminding her once again of how talented he is. Psychiatrist, surgeon, musician, chef, artist, murderer…

“You’re both very particular about your coffee,” he says.

Will snorts and stalks to Hannibal’s complicated press for a second helping.

“Pot and kettle, Hannibal. Or… _kettles_ , I suppose,” Will replies, “You’re pickier than both of us combined.”

His brow furrows as he stumbles through the steps of making another cup. Holly observes him fiddling with the contraption from a safe distance. She’s never tried contending with it for the exact same reason that Will is swearing at it now. It’s an unholy beast that no mortal could ever hope to tame save Hannibal.

“I’m merely particular,” Hannibal says.

“Picky.”

Holly tries not to choke as she snickers. She doesn’t think she could survive snorting expensive coffee out of her nose in front of these two.

“I can’t be faulted for having taste,” Hannibal argues.

Will’s eyebrows arch as he glances over his shoulder. As he’s turning his head, his eyes catch Holly’s for a brief moment, and the mischievous spark in them makes her bite her lip to contain outright laughter.

“Are you saying I don’t have taste?” Will asks.

Holly pretends to be scandalized, raising a hand to her face as if in horror, when really she’s hiding a smile. Hannibal can tell anyway, if the expression on his face is anything to go by, but he plays along.

“Of course not, Will. I’m only saying you’re not as discerning in your choice of _coffee_.”

Will sniffs and turns away again, a smile tugging at his own lips despite the playful scowl.

“Well we can’t all have a French Press during a murder investigation,” he replies.

The machine finally relents to spit out a stream of steaming liquid. Holly celebrates his victory with polite applause, to which Will finally grins and dips into a small bow. Hannibal doesn’t roll his eyes so much as close the little act by announcing breakfast.

They adjourn to the dining room. Holly takes her usual seat in a warm patch of sunlight, Will across from her. Hannibal presides at the head of the table, but doesn’t make an affair about setting their plates down. Breakfast commences with quiet hums of delight and the gentle scraping of forks.

A small island of meat has been set aside on Holly’s plate. She ignores it at first, content with the delicious egg and vegetable sauté. It’s only after she’s bit into the crostini slathered in a sweet fruit compote that she considers the sausage.

Murder is one thing, cannibalism is another. It’s a step further, she figures. Voluntary and involuntary cannibalism are thereby an ocean apart.

Without glancing at Will or Hannibal, she spears a piece of sausage. Uncertain about it on its own, she stacks eggs and vegetables beneath it so that it’s not the first thing she tastes. Determined, she doesn’t allow herself to pause as she stuffs the bite in her mouth.

Only then does she glance up. Will’s expression is mild curiosity as he washes down a mouthful of food with a swallow of coffee. Hannibal is sitting very still, fork suspended just above his meal. His eyes are bright and sharp and Holly feels a bit of nervousness as she chews.

If she’s expecting something dramatic when the sausage finally registers on her palette, she’s disappointed. It’s delicious, of course. So much so that her mouth waters for another taste. However, there’s no startling realization that she just ate someone and enjoyed it. She’s not disgusted or jubilant. She swallows without incident.

“What do you think?” Will asks.

She blinks at him, debating a response. Rather than attempt words, she nudges the sequestered meat into the sauté and scoops up another bite. Hannibal reaches out and squeezes her wrist, sharing a look with Will. She knows this wasn’t a test—or at least she doesn’t _think_ it was—but she feels accomplished anyway.

As they near the end of breakfast, Holly feels the caffeine working its magic. She polishes off the remains of her cup and glances at Will and Hannibal.

“So, which one of you killed Katie?” she asks.

Her tone is light, inquisitive. Hannibal and Will aren’t fazed by her question, nor her non sequitur. Hannibal, finished, sets his fork down and affords her his undivided attention.

“I did,” he says, “she was very rude and I find rudeness unspeakably ugly.”

Holly is quiet for a moment, processing. Hannibal would understand the symbolism of Tarot, and he also has an eye for art and elevation. She can almost imagine him carving into Katie’s skin, expression meditative as it is when he’s sketching or reading.

The rudeness bit is almost comedic. Shouldn’t murder be considered the ultimate act of rudeness? There’s an odd symmetry in this, though. Hannibal’s manners are impeccable in every other aspect of his life, but he slaughters and eats people. Not just people, rude people—pigs, not sheep. People eat pigs without guilt; Hannibal just eats pigs of a different variety.

“The message makes sense, then. It was a very sweet gift,” she replies.

“I’m glad it was appreciated.”

 _A supportive boyfriend_ , she thinks, which nearly makes her giggle. “Boyfriend” and Hannibal are incongruous. Still, there is another matter that needs attending that’s not quite as amusing.

“You both murder people,” she says slowly.

Though it’s not a question, Hannibal and Will both dip their heads in confirmation. Holly traces her index finger around the rim of her cup.

“Are you two going to…to teach me how?”

“Unlike most skills we must learn, murder is not something one needs to be taught. Slaughter is inherent to the human condition, much like breathing and blinking,” Hannibal says.

“I suppose in my case it’s twofold, considering my father…” she muses.

The inherency of bloodthirst has long been on her mind. Never mind the house or the money or anything left in her father’s will—most of which has been liquidated for wrongful death suits—the legacy she’s truly inherited is far deeper and darker.

“We’re going to teach you how to kill _successfully_ ,” Will says, “We’ll teach you all our tricks and skills. How to transmute your design into the real world without being caught.”

She nods, relief washing over her. The idea of trying to truss up a body like Hannibal or her father is daunting. That’s not even taking into account securing the body in the first place or dealing with evidence. She doubts she could manage it on her own.

“And what about…?”

“What about…?” Will prompts.

She flushes and makes an abortive gesture at the three of them as a whole, shoulders tensing.

“What—how…how do I fit in with…you two?” she asks, “How is _this_ going to work?”

They both look like they’re trying to restrain their amusement, but if they are they’re failing. She knows they’re not making fun of her, but her face still feels hot. Relationships have never been her forte.

“How is _what_ going to work?” Hannibal asks, “You’re not being very specific.”

She scowls, restraining the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Will finally cracks and snickers behind his hand.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” she says.

Holly’s not proud that she whines, but at least Hannibal relents, saving her from further embarrassment.

“Our relationship extends only as far as you are comfortable,” he says.

Will manages to get ahold of his laughter and joins the conversation again, tone light but sincere.

“This is new for all of us. It’s going to take work and a lot of trust and communication—both of which we kind of suck at right now.”

Holly arches her eyebrows at him.

“You mean _you two_ kind of suck at it,” she replies.

Will grimaces and nods in deference. Hannibal picks up again, no longer bothering to contain his pleased smile.

“A polyamorous relationship requires patience and dedication to be successful—even more so than the average relationship. What Will and I have now is going change as our relationships with you evolve.”

Holly nods, turning his words over in her mind. Three people in a relationship together. It’s almost daunting to think about—especially with _them_.

“So we’re all…romantically involved with each other,” she muses, “so how are we going about this? Should we…try to build individual relationships before moving on to the polyamorous stuff?”

Will and Hannibal consider for a moment. Will sips at the remains of his second cup, looking like his normal, disheveled self now—though perhaps more rested.

“Perhaps develop both simultaneously,” Hannibal suggests, “We will build our relationships as couples at the same time we build our relationship as a trio.”

Holly nods and glances at Will for his consensus. It makes sense. Having strong relationships between them as couples is different from building a dynamic as three. Doing both at the same time will, hopefully, help this whole operation run smoothly.

It’s a start at least—there’s always room to adjust later.

“Sounds good to me,” Will says, “let’s go clean up from breakfast, Holly.”


End file.
